Close to Ideal
by Hestia01
Summary: Sherlock decides to give dating a try. Set about a year after "His Last Vow" Season 3 spoilers. You've been warned!
1. Chapter 1

John knew he had to have this conversation. He'd known it before his wedding day, but had put it off. Now, with the wedding and its aftermath almost a year past, he finally ventured back to that night...his stag night with Sherlock, when his best friend confessed his love. He did more than that, of course. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sherlock had crawled on top of him and graced him with an inebriated kiss on the mouth, pleading that he never leave him, to please come home and stay. Without his usual coat of armor, Sherlock Holmes was the most vulnerable man John had ever seen.

"_I love you, John. More than anything. I need you; I need you to come home, to Baker Street, to me...please, darling. Just the two of us against the world, like always. Wouldn't that be wonderful? My friend, my dearest friend, please say it. Say you love me, too. Please. No one's ever said it to me before..."_

Fortunately, that had been when he'd fallen asleep for the first time that evening. More fortunately still, Sherlock didn't seem to remember it. He truly seemed happy for him and Mary, even when she turned out to be more than she seemed. John was still coping with that particular bombshell, but shelved the matter for the sake of his and Mary's new life together. Sherlock had them over regularly, and if his smiles seemed forced or didn't meet his eyes, or if he drew too close to John for too long...well, everyone knew that Sherlock was always a little strange.

John sat down in his old chair at Sherlock's flat; he leaned over thoughtfully and gazed across at his friend. "Sherlock...there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about."

"Go on," the detective invited, genuinely curious about what's to come.

"Why...why didn't you ever tell me? Before, after? While you were sober? Why did you just stand back and let it all happen? Just...why?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, steepling his fingers under his chin. "Tell you what?"

Watson shook his head, "I'd have chalked it up to you being drunk at the time, but it didn't fit. Looking back, I should've seen the signs of it ages ago, but you know...idiot," he gestured deprecatingly to himself. "Went right past me until it was right in front of my face." He looked at him somberly, remorsefully. "I hurt you. I know it now and I'm just so sorry. So sorry, Sherlock. I know that saying it doesn't change anything, but I-"

Throughout the halting apology, Sherlock's face became drawn and worried. _What could I have said to him on his stag night?! Surely not...oh god, I did! It's the only thing. _"The reason I didn't tell you should be obvious: in the time we worked and lived together, on each of the dozens of occasions in which someone suggested that we were 'together', you denied it with such force that would make it abundantly clear how distasteful a notion it was. You mocked and derided any idea that you might be in a romantic relationship with me. I...clearly disgusted you. It hurt. About as much as it hurt that day at the bank all those years ago, when I introduced you to Sebastian as my friend, you immediately corrected that you were merely my colleague."

John winced as though he'd been struck, reminded afresh of that day, and instantly recalled how Sherlock deliberately excluded him from the rest of the investigation after that. He finally saw the connection. "I'm so-"

"Sorry. I know," Sherlock interrupted with narrowed eyes. "Of course, you had no way of knowing how lonely I'd been, how I'd _longed _for someone to call my friend. Such a prize, a treasure," he sighed. "You made up for it since, you've shown me unwavering loyalty, for which I'm still grateful...but that first denial was, honestly, quite painful. Then to hear it time and again that the two of us being _together_ was so very laughable...and you wonder why it took a night of drunken idiocy to make me confess my love for you? You wonder why I never said it again after I regained my senses? I may be lacking people skills, John, but even I know better than to intrude where I'm unwanted. What good would it have done to tell you, hmm? What would you have said? Done? Would you have laughed at me, brushed it off like it was a joke? Would you fade into the background and not risk coming near me lest I attack you? You say you could see the signs after knowing the truth, but I wonder how many of them you noticed. Was it when I held your hand as we ran from the police? Froze in your arms when you hugged me at your wedding? Spoke of myself and Mary as the two people who love you most in all the world? Any idiot could have seen those. What of the times when I sent you in my stead, acknowledging you as my right hand? Faking my own death to keep you safe? What of all those times in our day-to-day mundanity that I would be rudely dismissive of you to keep myself from acting on my impulses? Yes, those times that probably made you wonder why you even bothered to put up with me were the times I was most in danger of making a fool of myself. If I hadn't gone so far the other way, I would have been begging you to hold me!" His voice broke and he ducked his head down into his hands. "What would you have said if I told you I loved you while I was completely in my right mind? You'd have ignored it, pretended I hadn't said anything, reminded me we were out of milk again and then dashed off with one of your girlfriends-of-the-week."

"I might have been nicer to you, if I'd known."

"You wouldn't have dared," Sherlock snarled. "What if it gave me the wrong idea? What if it gave me hope? Gave me the mad idea that you loved me back?! Dammit, even when we were running for our lives in handcuffs, when I asked you to take my hand you _still_ couldn't forget how it would tarnish your image. That was your priority!"

"I still remember taking your hand, then, Sherlock. Yes, I was concerned about what people say, but it wasn't about you!" John burst out. "It's like those pictures of you in that stupid hat! You hated it, hated that that's all the public saw of you, and it _wasn't_ you! That's why it bothered you. Same goes for me. Like it or not, Sherlock, we were never in a romantic relationship. We were never lovers, so I got pretty tired of hearing that we were when there was nothing I could to do make them think otherwise! You don't disgust me, you never have. Annoy, astound, amaze, flabbergast...yes, but never disgust! Imagine if people thought you and Lestrade were lovers, and they kept at you about it, not listening when you corrected them. There's nothing wrong with Lestrade, but I'm willing to bet the constant assumptions would grate on you after a while. So...I'm sorry for all of the times I've hurt you. I'm glad I was able to redeem myself a little, that you still want to be my friend. You are still the best friend I've ever had, and I love you for it. You're my brother, Sherlock, my family. I hope you always will be."

Sherlock was silent for several minutes, obviously thinking. He turned his gaze back to his friend, his eyes deep and full of feeling. "I...don't disgust you?"

"Nope."

Here, he smiled. "Good. That's good."

John smiled back cautiously. "Just not gay. If I was...who knows? I...might've taken a fancy to you. What the hell am I saying? Of course I would have. How could I have resisted you?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and sighed, "Flattery."

"Looked like you needed some. So...are we all right?" Sherlock nodded, still pouting moodily, but he seemed to be back to normal. "Good." John stood up to go, Holmes followed suit, trailing him to the door.

"John, would you...?" He broke off, biting his lip and blushing.

Watson stopped at the door, giving his friend a concerned look. "Would I what?"

With closed eyes and hands folded pleadingly, Sherlock stammered with a choking voice. "Would you...please..." he looked down at his shoes. "Let me...just once... Please hold me," he whispered.

He looked so sad and lost, finally letting those feelings surface visibly after all this time. John let go of the doorframe and turned to face him. He paused for a moment in thought before agreeing, "Yeah...sure." He took two steps toward Sherlock and took him in his arms. He felt his friend gasp and choke back a sob as he pressed his face down into his shoulder, squeezing him tightly. Too tight, too long to just be a friendly, manly hug. Sherlock wept openly, pressing halting kisses into John's neck, murmuring half-formed words of love and gratitude, pleasure and sorrow. After a few minutes of this, John weakly struggled against his friend's embrace. "All right, that's enough. Sherlock, that's enough."

"Never," he breathed against his neck. "Never enough. My love..." he nuzzled in lightly before obediently breaking it off. "Thank you."

John nodded, certain he was blushing as much as his friend was. It certainly looked strange to see such a rosy glow on those pale cheeks. He cleared his throat, rubbing his face and neck self-consciously. "Well, I'll see you later. Don't forget you're coming round on Sunday."

If Sherlock was at all surprised by his continued inclusion with John's family, it didn't show. He'd been named godfather to John and Mary's daughter, and was already her favorite uncle by default. One thing he'd secretly feared was that John would shun him if he'd ever made his feelings known, and take his only "real" family away from him in one fell swoop. For all appearances, everything was the same as always. He nodded briskly, gave John a swat on the shoulder and sent him out the door.

The afternoon had certainly given Sherlock food for thought. After addressing the issue head-on and getting as good of results as he could have hoped for, he pondered what his next course of action should be. While John was ultimately accepting of him, it was obvious that he wasn't to go mooning around him after this official revelation. It simply wouldn't be allowed. He'd content himself to just being friends, as always, but knowing now that John would be watching him like a hawk for any 'deviant' behavior made him realize he'd have to keep things even closer to the vest than before.

On Monday morning, Sherlock entered the morgue, gazing in the lab where Molly Hooper was working. She didn't see him yet. He fought to remain as calm and controlled as always.

"_Ever think of Molly?" John had suggested the previous day after lunch._

"_Think of Molly what?" he'd drawled obtusely._

"_You know, asking her out. I mean, unless you aren't...that way," Mary supposed, taking her husband's hand._

_Sherlock flicked his gaze between the two of them, exhaling sharply. He wondered how honest he ought to be, but it looked like Mary already suspected a thing or two. "There was only ever one man for me, and unfortunately, someone got to him first." He raised his eyebrows significantly at Mrs. Watson. "No offense meant, of course. I'm happy for you both. My brief entanglement with Janine is the extent of my experience with women...do you think it would be wise for me to...try again?"_

"_Well, at least in this case, you wouldn't have to bother with ulterior motives," John reminded him. "Molly's a sweet girl, she's always loved you. I'm sure she'll be willing to give it a shot. It doesn't even have to be a big deal, just take her out for coffee. See where it goes."_

Sherlock suspected that this friendly advice had a point to it, probably to the purpose of helping him get over John. He walked into the room, dragging his feet just a bit. He stood over the latest entry in Molly's in-box and cleared his throat.

"So, what's this one?"

Molly looked up with a blank expression. "Car accident. Fractured spine, three broken ribs, head trauma...Family's coming to identify him."

"Should've worn his seat belt," Sherlock remarked coldly. At least a normal person would perceive it as coldly. Molly, however, could tell when he was trying to be funny. She gave him a smile and made an assenting sound before rolling her subject back in. She took off her gloves and threw them away before starting in on the next one. Sherlock followed her like a shadow. "Molly...would you like to join me for coffee?"

Busily examining her next corpse, she answered distractedly, "Haven't made any yet, but feel free to."

"No, I mean...later. When you've finished." Each word came out with more difficulty than the last. "Would you like...to go out...for coffee...after work?" Sherlock breathed a heavy sigh of relief at getting that sentence out properly.

Molly looked up at him with a suspicious expression. "All right, what do you need?"

"Hmm?"

"What do you want me to do for you? You're only nice to me when you need a favour," she reminded him. She set her tools down and crossed her arms expectantly.

"I'm abandoning form, it seems. I just...thought we could give this a try."

She still stared at him distrustfully, but reminded herself that she had been the most important piece in his disappearing act...and it was only his seeming obliviousness to her that spared her life. She'd been his conscience and his confidant. For a man with such limited social skills, she had to take that fact for what it was worth. "You really mean it? Nothing funny?"

"Not intentionally, anyway. Now who do we have on slab #2?" He changed the subject quickly, glad to have gotten the asking/accepting business over.

"Suicide. Usual stomach full of sleeping pills and vodka. Nothing very interesting for you today, I'm afraid."

Sherlock made a face, unable to disagree with her there. "If so many people have to die every day, the least they could do is make it _interesting!_ Seems poor manners on their parts, really. Better luck with the next load, hmm?"

Molly had to laugh at her friend's morbid sense of humor. She'd take all of the "boring" deaths the job could deal her. "That's the spirit. Got to stay optimistic about these things." He actually smiled back at her, holding her gaze intensely. "I'll call you if anything comes in."

"Send me a text when you've finished. I'll pick you up."

"You're serious? About...going out later?" Molly's voice sounded light and shaky, as if the idea pleased and frightened her at the same time.

"Of course. See you this evening. Unless something interesting shows up, of course," he gave her a jaunty wink before breezing out.

Sherlock spent the rest of the day at home, checking his phone every few seconds, thinking he'd heard it go off. He changed his clothes three times and came out looking identical to what he'd had on that morning. He did a few internet searches for possible help, received contradictory advice about every aspect of a simple coffee date, and subsequently had a tantrum about it. Finally, his text alert went off and he got at least some measure of relief. _The game is on!_

He went downstairs, hailed a cab, and sent Molly a message that he was on the way. As soon as he pulled up to St. Bart's, Molly scurried down and slid in beside him, looking very excited. She'd changed out of her work clothes and was dressed in a summery green camisole and blue blouse with a pair of well-worn and well-loved jeans. Sherlock simply looked ill. He suddenly felt very awkward and didn't understand why. _It's just Molly! You've seen her a thousand times, spent hundreds of hours in her company. Yes, but always on the job. This might be a bit different. Just treat it like work. It'll be fine! It's only Molly._

"Sorry, what?" she asked, leaning in close to catch her date's mutterings.

"It's just Molly," he repeated under his breath, then realized she could hear him. "No! That's not how I meant- I just...Uh..."

Somehow, Molly could see past how bad his remark might have sounded, and focused instead on his quavering tone. He was clearly nervous and was trying to talk himself down from it. She would gladly be "just Molly" if it helped him calm down! "You're right, Sherlock, it's just me. Nothing to be scared of." She gave him a reassuring smile and patted his hand with a happy squeak that she couldn't suppress. Since he didn't brush her away, she wrapped her fingers loosely around his. Not quite holding his hand, but almost.

"Yes..." he breathed. "Yes, of course. Nothing to be scared of. Who said I was scared?" He cleared his throat and spoke once more in his level baritone. "I assume the rest of your day was as dull as the morning, then?"

"Thankfully, yes. I get enough excitement with you involved." Molly clapped a hand to her mouth and blushed. "Oh, god-"

The driver peeked back at them with a smirk. _First dates never change. Take two grown, functional, intelligent adults and set them up with each other, and suddenly they're stammering adolescents again. _ Soon, they pulled up to the cafe, and the date officially began. Little did either of them realize that the cab ride over there would be the high point of the evening...

Sherlock and Molly sat in a secluded little nook at a small table for two. A local band was warming up at the small "stage" in the corner. Molly looked around, smiling vaguely, patting Sherlock's hand again with a giddy smile.

"Thank you for this," she murmured, leaning in close as if afraid of being overheard.

"Oh. Yes, well...no trouble, Hooper—uh, Molly," he groaned, driving his knuckles into his forehead. Bravely, he tried to amend it with a lame joke. "Well, whoever you are." Molly tittered politely, starting to feel just a bit embarrassed by his odd behavior. He was beginning to act as though he were being stuck by needles.

"You all right?"

"Yes, fine, thank you, fine," he muttered, looking all around himself and drumming his fingers. His attention kept getting diverted to the other patrons, he found himself subconsciously analysing them before glancing back at his date with an expression that was trying to be a smile but it really looked like he felt a spider crawling down his spine. "So...what sounds good? I'll run up and put in our order."

"Medium part-skim chai latte, light foam and cinnamon," she requested with a smile.

Sherlock gave her a momentary baffled expression before skulking up to the counter. "One small coffee-"

"Which kind? Medium, dark roast, or decaf? Today's medium's Ethiopia, Dark is New Guinea and Decaf is Sumatra. We also have Tanzania Peaberry on press to sample." The barista recited, gesturing with a bored air at the menu to his left.

Sherlock peered at the chalkboard, "Uh, medium, I suppose? Black, two sugars-"

"Sugar is behind you."

"Oh. Also a medium...part skim? Chai...light foam with cinnamon?" He phrased it like a question, wondering if this was an actual drink order or if his date was playing a trick on him. With the trouble it took to order a plain black coffee, he expected another round of follow-up questions to Molly's order. To his surprise, the barista started that drink without another word. Moments later, the drinks appear on the end of the counter in paper cups.

"Oh, these were for here."

The barista gave him a dirty look, sighed, and poured them into ceramic mugs. She thrust them at him and stalked away.

"Excuse me, miss, you've just ruined my date's drink. The foam's all deflated and..." He stopped his faltering and squared his shoulders, giving her a good once-over. _Shoulders slouched, glazed expression, been on the clock since...6 this morning. No lunch break, hates the manager, I was the 20__th__ person in the space of an hour with an irritating ordering pattern—not my fault, still worth considering. Trouble at home, agreed to work a double today to cover unexpected expenses...hospital, most likely. _"You know what? It's fine. I'm just on a first date here and I'm a bit wound up." Sherlock gestured to Molly, giving her an OK signal. Molly waved back cheerfully.

The barista's expression changed, she actually smiled. "Oh. That's all right, I can make it again." As she remade the chai, she talked. "You don't frequent cafes, then? I can tell. You don't speak the language. Sorry for before, it just throws off my groove when they don't have the patter down."

"Never knew there was so much that went into getting a plain cup of coffee."

She handed him the remade chai, telling him, "Good luck. She looks nice."

Sherlock returned triumphantly to the table with a sharp sigh of relief. He slid Molly her drink and started to slurp his down with more than usual gusto.

"Next time we do this, I'll study beforehand," he remarked casually. "Although I thought I did sufficient research this afternoon."

Molly giggled at him, "You did _research_ before taking me out for a coffee?"

"Yes!" He snarled, suddenly defensive. This was an awkward situation for him and he didn't appreciate his date laughing at him. "What's so funny about that?"

"Nothing," she murmured, sipping her drink. "It's just not something a lot of people do."

"I'm not like most people," Sherlock reminded her pompously.

"Tell me about it."

They sip their drinks in silence, neither of them knows what they're supposed to say.

"You said 'next time we do this'...did you want to do this again?" Molly asked.

Sherlock was back to his nervous fidgeting, casting his gaze all over the room as if watching a very active fly. "If you have no objection. Although, any explanations you could provide would be _most_ helpful. You seem more familiar with this sort of thing."

"Explanations?" Molly was starting to look annoyed at his twitching. "Look, if you don't want to be here, we can finish this now. I'm going to go to the bathroom-"

"Didn't need to know that."

"-and when I come back, we'll discuss our options, shall we?"

This sounded most agreeable to him, he completely missed the mild threat her tone suggested. Sherlock nodded gratefully. "Yes, good."

Once Molly stalked away in a semi-huff, a stranger turned around to address Sherlock. "You know what the matter is, mate?"

"I'm all ears."

"You asked her to join you for coffee, right?"

"Yes, and here we are, imagine that."

The stranger chuckled to himself. "You know that 'coffee' is usually meant as code for 'sex', right?"

Sherlock went completely ashen. He felt his blood go cold. "You're putting me on."

"My guess is, you invited her over for coffee, she thought 'sex is on!' and now you're a caffeinated, fidgety mess while she's wondering when you two are going to adjourn to your place. Just me sayin', though. Good luck."

Sherlock watched his date return, looking a bit calmer than she had been. He gulped. _Molly Hooper wants to have sex with me. She thinks I'm...oh, no. John, where are you?!_ He tugged at his collar, clearing his throat. "Look, Molly, I hope you're having a decent enough time to warrant a repeat experience."

She took in his physical attitude: he was as scrunched together as it was possible to be, looking very much like a cornered animal. She can't make out what's wrong with her normally charismatic friend. "It's, well, honestly, I just don't appreciate being made fun of!"

"Wh-what?" That statement completely blindsided him. "Making fun of you?"

"You've barely looked at me since you picked me up, you can't sit still, you obviously made a fuss about the drinks to that poor barista...Frankly, I'm more than a little embarrassed." Her voice dropped low and dangerous. "And you have the nerve to ask if I'm having a good enough time?"

Sherlock made an effort to keep his eyes from wandering. He fixed them straight at his date as he thought out his next move... "Yes?" _Wrong answer! _In his mind's eye, he saw bold red words flashing: _Vatican cameos!_ He braced himself for the anticipated attack, gripping the table.

"What's wrong with you?! Must I remind you that this was _your _idea, so I don't know why you're acting like this is all some sort of surprise. I mean, researching?! Did you actually do a web search for this? Is this what it said to do?"

"I don't know!" He finally burst out, having grown tired of the interrogation. "I just...I just need to breathe." _I suppose going back to the morgue wouldn't be the best of suggestions in this situation,_ he wisely told himself, covering his face. "They all said something different and I can't...I just wanted to take you out, do something that _people_ do, apparently! None of it makes any sense, Molly. Try to understand. I'm really trying here!"

Molly then let up, reaching for his hand again. "My god, you're shaking! What in the world? What's the matter with you?"

"Do you want an itemised list? I'm sure John has one on his blog somewhere," he muttered from behind his other hand.

Seeing his nerves for what they are softened Molly considerably. She'd just never seen someone so worked up about an innocent coffee date, he looked terrified! And she'd just had to go and berate him for not knowing what to do. "There's a pub across the street. Let's go get a pint and calm down, all right?"

Sherlock looked at her with relief written all over his face. Molly thought he also looked vaguely like he was about to throw up. "That sounds good." _Just don't get drunk; things get all weird and I can't think, _he reminded himself.

Molly smiled and gave his hand another squeeze. He took this as a good sign that all may not be lost.

"Did you know that some people use 'coffee' as code for 'sex'?" Sherlock asked, keen to bring about friendly conversation.

This brought a mortified look to Molly's face. She'd just been able to forgive his outlandish behavior, and now this?! "Yes, Sherlock, of course I did," she whispered.

"Oh. I didn't. Someone just told me while you were in the loo. You...you, uh...didn't think I meant sex when I asked you out for coffee, did you?"

Blushing violently, his date looked around apprehensively, certain that they were gaining an audience and that they were the center of ridicule. "No, I'm sure you just meant coffee."

"Oh, good!" he replied brightly, suddenly relieved. "That's better, then."

"Let's go, Sherlock. We're attracting a scene." And with that, she got up and traipsed out the door with her date trailing behind her.

They sat together at a table near the window with a pint each and a basket of chips between them. Sherlock ventured bravely, "Molly...did I do something to upset you?"

She wasn't sure how to answer that. He looked truly ignorant of his behavior! She pinched her lips together, trying to figure out where to begin. "You're just acting very strangely, that's all."

"Strange for normal people, or strange for me?"

Now, hearing the question framed this way certainly cast a different light on it. "Well..." she allowed, "I guess, fairly normal for you. I just...didn't expect...you know, for this to be how you really acted. I always figured that was just how you were at work."

"I'm always at work, or, nearly always," Sherlock reminded her lightly, sipping his beer. "I don't change how I act unless I'm trying to get information out of someone."

"Well, first of all, when you're on a date with someone, it's considered normal to talk to them. Make conversation, tell about your day. Any interesting stories from your past, that sort of thing. You don't just sit there and make faces. Oh, you were doing that thing, weren't you?"

Sherlock looked up from his glass. "Thing? Oh. Yes, that thing. I can't really help it, you know."

Molly gave him an encouraging smile. He was actually acting like he was on a date now! "So that's why you're always...like that." She'd always assumed that his constant flow of observations was his way of showing off. To some degree, she was sure that was still the case, but if he really couldn't control it... "I think it's pretty amazing what you can do."

"Really?"

"Makes me a bit jealous sometimes, actually. Wish I was that sharp. Except, of course, it does tend to make you look like a crazy person."

Sherlock was used to slights on his sanity, so he let that remark slide. He was just relieved that things were going better at last. They each had another couple of pints, and ordered some burgers as well. Half an hour later, both of them were feeling like they were actually having a good time, when...

"You know, Molly, you do look very pretty today," Sherlock slurred with a relaxed grin. "I really do like you, really, as far as people go...I never went out with a girl I actually liked."

"I thought you were engaged once?"

The drunk detective waved that away decisively, "Didn't like her. Guess she was pretty if you like that kind of...face-thing, but I had to pretend so hard with her. Act like a _person._" He shuddered. _ "_I like you; it's easier. Just not when I'm trying to behave," he giggled too loudly at this. Their waitress came up to their table with the bill. Sherlock fumbled through his wallet and came up with a couple of £50 notes and muttered "Keep it," sending her on her way.

"You're saying that in the cafe just now, that was you trying to behave?" She laughed as well, feeling the effects of the alcohol.

"That was me on my very, very best behavior. I wanted everything to be so nice for you, cuz you're nice and deserve nice things, and...what was I saying?"

"Sherlock," she giggled, "you're very, _very_ bad at behaving."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Can we just go back to the morgue and talk shop with the dead bodies? I like that. I just like hanging around dead people with you, it's fun. Oh! Better idea. Skip the morgue. Let's go to my place. Yes. Let's just...go home. Okay?" He didn't even wait for her to respond. He grabbed her hand and dragged her along with him out onto the curb.

He hailed them a cab and ordered, "Baker Street."

They stumbled up the stairs, giggling. "I'm...I'm going to try to kiss you now, Molly," Sherlock warned her, grinning idiotically. "I practiced and everything. I..._observed_ specimens in their natural habitat," he proclaimed in mockery of a professor. He pressed her against the door as it closed behind them. He inexpertly dragged his mouth across hers before he got the hang of it. Then he backed off, taking her hand and laying wet kisses across it. Meanwhile, she was starting to sober up, and was consequently realizing this was likely to be a bad move.

Sherlock took off his coat and jacket, flinging them aside and he unbuttoned the first few buttons on his shirt. He came up close to her again, gazing deep into her eyes, pouting adorably. His addled brain was still trying to process the evening. _Coffee=sex? Had coffee, now sex? Sex good? How? Don't remember. Deleted it. But Molly...friend? Friend...dead people playing-with friend. Helps with stuff. Like her. _"Molly, I know you thought you were nobody, but you're not. You're _somebody_. And...I can't believe you actually went out with me. 'specially after whats-his-name."

He took her by the shoulders, leading her backwards into the bedroom. He dropped her on the bed and slid in next to her, kissing her again.

She let him kiss her, selfishly relishing the moment. Bad idea or not, Sherlock Holmes was finally kissing her! She moaned softly, kissing him back, her hands full of his hair. She'd imagined this so many times, dreamed of this moment for so long. Then...it started to get strange...Sherlock had taken his trousers down, but still had his underpants on...and he was rubbing against her leg, vigorously.

"Sherlock...what are you doing?"

He didn't answer, just grunted softly, then his excuse for a climax hit him. He collapsed nervelessly on her, groaning, "Hold me, John!" Molly raised her eyebrows at this, and tried to push him off. He clung on tightly, though. "That felt really good. You're all soft and pink," he mumbled, laying his head against her stomach.

Molly stood up sharply, bowling Sherlock over. "What—the—hell?! What? What do you think...? Of all the...! Goodbye, Sherlock, find yourself another assistant! If I never see you again, it will be too soon!"

Sherlock got up, stumbled with his pants around his ankles. "Wait, come back! What went wrong?!"

"You think I'm some stupid little girl you can pull a stunt like that on? Or was it something you and your old boyfriend came up with!?"

"He's not my boyfriend, he was never my boyfriend," Sherlock denied, his head beginning to clear. He rubbed a hand over his face. "Molly, I'm sorry!"

"Stop being sorry, Sherlock! You can't just say 'sorry' and have everything be okay! What you did...that's unforgivable!" She stomped off to the bathroom to wash up.

He sat back down on the bed, clutching his head as he tried to process everything. _I made a mess of things again. I'm always screwing things up with her. What did I do wrong this time?_

Molly was about to leave when she heard the strangest sound...the sound itself wasn't strange, but the location and person made it so. Sherlock was crying! She gritted her teeth, turning the doorknob, when she heard it again. Cursing her sentimental heart, she let her hand drop, looking back. She set her jaw, steeling herself and slowly returned to the bedroom. He was talking on the phone, and he sounded a mess. He'd called John, from the sounds of it, and she could only hear his side of the conversation-

"I don't know what happened; I tried, though! I tried so hard! I did! Yeah, a bit. Three pints I think? She was so pretty and nice, I wanted her to have a good time but there are so many rules. Don't know where I went wrong. I wanted to do it right but I don't...well, you know. Oh...! John, she's...! She's come back! Sure, here she is." He handed her the phone.

She took it, her expression unreadable. "Hello?"

"Molly, are you all right?"

"Fine. He didn't hurt me, he just...mounted my leg and dribbled on it after about ten seconds. He acted really weird all night. I actually thought this was your idea of a joke."

"Look, you have to understand Sherlock. I thought you did, and you ought to, but I'll fill you in. First and foremost, this was likely his first-ever real date with someone. I mean, can you honestly believe that many people would go out with him? Wanting to because he's handsome is one thing, actually doing it when they know him as a person is another. You're in very limited company, Molly. You and about four other people are the only ones who can even stand him, myself included."

"So he really never...?"

John guessed her train of thought, "It's possible that Janine seduced him, but knowing Sherlock, he'd have deleted it since the memory of it didn't seem important. He played his part with her to get what he needed from her and promptly forgot all about it. He has no clue, really. Kind of sad, when you think about it."

Molly's gaze drifts back down to the wretched creature on the bed, sniffling and rubbing his nose. "Yeah, I'd say so. Look, I'll stay with him a bit, until he calms down at least."

"I'm sorry for how badly your date went, Molly, but the fact that he went through with it at all surprises me." In the background he could hear Sherlock whining, "She's so cross with me and won't tell me why!" John cracked a grin over this. "Better tell him why, for starters. I mean, _really_ spell it out for him. He's absolutely brilliant, except when he's an idiot. He's just a different sort, you know? He's surrounded by _people_ and he's just not one. He just needs one of his own kind."

"Yeah, and he's one of a kind," she mutters with a scowl.

"Actually, no," John corrected her, as the thought occurred to him. "There's at least one more. I gotta go, I have another call to make. You try and calm Sherlock down and I'll see what I can do. All right?" And he hung up.

Crossing his fingers that he wasn't going to wake the elder Holmes up and incur his wrath, John dialed Mycroft's number.

"This had better be important," a surly drawl answered the phone.

"It is, it's about Sherlock."

"What's he done now?"

"He's...having a bit of a crisis, to be honest."

"Drugs?"

"Worse. A date."

Mycroft sat up, switching on a light. "You're telling me that my baby brother is on a _date?_"

"Yes."

"With you?"

"No, not with me! With a woman he knows from work."

"A woman?! Odd..."

"Mycroft, just please listen. It went about as bad as you can probably imagine..."

The smile was evident in Mycroft's voice as he answered silkily, "Oh, how dreadful. Poor boy."

"And now he's having a bit of an existential meltdown. I think it broke his brain."

"It certainly breaks mine to think down to your level. Constant headache, I tell you," he sighed melodramatically. "Why are you telling me this?"

"He needs to hear from someone who's the same as him. He just would really benefit...if you two could have a nice little chat. You told me the first day you met me that you were genuinely concerned for him. He needs you now, so help him! He's surrounded by _people _and he's utterly flummoxed by them. Say something encouraging for once!"

Sherlock's phone trilled in his hand once more. He and Molly had made some slight headway, but there was still quite a way left to go. "Hello?" he answered dully.

"Hello, dear brother. I heard you were in a spot of trouble."

He grunted an agreement, glad he'd stopped crying in time. He was sobering up, too. "Glad to hear that good news travels fast. To what do I owe this particular pleasure?"

"Oh, you know, brotherly love."

Sherlock's lips twitched in a parody of a grin. "Is that what you call it?"

"Really, Sherlock, I want to help. Now, I can't imagine how you fraternize with these people. You can't relate to them, and they can't possibly understand you. I can, though. All too easily. Normal, or close enough to it. Not normal enough, though, to pass for one of them."

Strangely, hearing his brother's voice was actually helping Sherlock build himself back up. The conversation was the usual meaningless sibling-rivalry twaddle, but it was familiar, it made sense, it followed the expected pattern. "Well, what can I say? Try, try again."

"Why do you bother thrusting yourself upon these goldfish? They're morons and you know it!"

"Not all of them. John isn't, or his wife...and Molly isn't. They're not...quite like us, but they're different. Different enough. They can understand me if they try. We...don't mind being different from each other. It keeps things interesting. We rely on each other...our strengths."

"Now, Molly...there's a name I haven't heard in a while. Is this the same eager young pathologist who helped you rise from the dead? Clever little thing, as people go."

"You approve, then?"

Mycroft chose not to answer, but he didn't give an outright 'no.'

"It's good to hear your voice, brother dear," Sherlock purred softly. "It's been immensely helpful."

"That was my intention." And without another word, he hung up.

Sherlock looked at the blank phone screen for a moment and laughed, laying it aside. _Leave it to John to know what I need to hear, and who I need to hear it from!_ He faced Molly with renewed hope. "My brother is a complete and total berk, but he has some good points," he smiled up at her.

"That's family for you," she agreed loosely. She didn't know Mycroft well enough to give an honest opinion of him. She knew that the two of them didn't see eye-to-eye, but were still in fairly regular contact.

"Can we try this again sometime?" Sherlock asked. Molly nodded and kissed his forehead.

"Just don't try so hard, and no drinking. Those were your biggest problems tonight. Be yourself...just dial it down a bit. Now get some sleep, I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe we'll have some interesting corpses in by then," she suggested with a genuine smile. One that he returned.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Sherlock slept late. He'd been up all night thinking, rehashing his evening with Molly, committing the pleasurable parts to memory while trying to find out where he went wrong in the not-so-good parts. It didn't help his confidence at all when he found that when he was most familiar were the times Molly thought he was a crazy person. _Well, I _am_ a crazy person, aren't I? The sooner she can accept that detail, the better!_

He tried calling John again after getting dressed, but he wouldn't pick up. After the third try, it went straight to voicemail. Instead, he sent a text, demanding he get in touch as soon as possible. It irked him when he made it all the way back to the hospital without hearing back. Still, he took a steadying breath and walked into the lab where Doctor Hooper held court. With two steaming mugs of coffee, he breezed behind Molly and placed hers on her work station. She turned around with a barely-concealed gasp. Sherlock studied her: _dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, twitchy mouth...lipstick?! Hmm...looks like I didn't make such a mess of things._

A smile fluttered at Molly's lips, her hand closed around her mug, and she simply stared up at him for several seconds. "Well, no mystery involved in this one, but at least he managed to die 'interesting' as you hoped for." She let him get a look at her latest subject. "Suspected cult activity. Looks like he managed to chew through barbed wire to saw his head open."

Sherlock's expression certainly brightened. He bent over the grisly figure like a child examining his especially longed-for Christmas toy. "Now _this_ is how you off yourself, Molly! None of this wishy-washy way of sleeping pills like our friend from yesterday. If you want to end it all, go out in style! Finally, someone with consideration for the people who have to deal with him after he's gone!" He carelessly flung an arm around Molly's shoulders, glowing with pleasure. He pulled up a chair and perched eagerly next to her, gazing raptly between the pathologist and the corpse. Molly had never seen him smile so much! He watched eagerly as she performed the postmortem. She could tell from his expression he was committing it to memory. Like a burgeoning cook copying an ambitious recipe from a cooking program, Sherlock memorized Molly's every move.

_Hands...dextrous, sensitive, so very keen,_ he admired, puzzled why he was suddenly recording her movements now. He'd only gone on last night's date with her at John and Mary's urging, but he had to admit that he'd actually enjoyed himself when he wasn't in the grips of paralysing fear or even more paralysing beer. Conventional dating would never be his forte, but he had to admit that Molly had potential. She was certainly an enjoyable companion at the best of times. At the worst...well, he'd be the first to admit he needed a few good slaps to the face now and again.

After finishing up with her 'interesting' subject, Molly removed her gloves, washed up and sat down next to Sherlock, sipping her coffee. "Thanks," she told him simply. He just grunted distractedly as he drank his down, eager for the stimulant to hit his brain. Accustomed to his usual brusqueness, Molly patted his hand with a genial smile, getting a startled look from him in return. He took her positive mood as a good sign and smiled back.

"Now, this is my idea of a coffee date," Sherlock announced contentedly. "This, I can handle. No fussing about to behave. Just you, me, regular coffee that I can pronounce in one breath, and a few good dead bodies to poke around with. This is Heaven!" He exhaled with a satisfied sigh, looking as though all was right with the world. He smiled over at her, and was surprised to see hers fade from her face. "What's wrong? What did I do now?"

She shook her head, setting her cup down. "Nothing. Just..."

He'd already started to guess what the problem was. "This isn't your idea of a date," he filled in dully, growling softly to himself. A blush crept to his pale cheeks as he wondered for the first time if there was really something _wrong_ with him.

Molly saw his signs of distress, and was quick to recant. "It's fine. Really. I had no idea how worried you were yesterday. This is fine, we can count this as a date." Sherlock heaved a frustrated sigh, running his fingers through his hair, staring sulkily at the floor. He felt a pang of loneliness: John had yet to return his messages. Who else did he know who could help him through this? After some soul-searching last night, he admitted that he did care about Molly Hooper, and not just because of her role in his elaborate death-hoax. He remembered her flitting through his mind palace, a solid voice of reason, when he needed her the most. She was part of him. He realized he trusted her, valued her, believed in her abilities and relied on her conscience as his moral compass. He always made her make that look on her face, though. That...disappointed face that made him feel cold inside. Somehow, though, in spite of that, she'd become his friend when neither of them expected it.

She could tell that Sherlock was still upset, and tried to bring him around. For starters, she got up and took his empty mug from him, went out and got them both a refill, stirring in two sugar packets into his. She handed it back to him as he gazed up at her.

He cocked his head at her like a curious puppy. "You know how I take my coffee," he observed with mild surprise.

"Of course I do. You've told me enough."

He gave her a small, uncertain smile. "Thank you." They were both quiet for a while as they felt each other out.

"It's all right, really," Molly assured him, touching his shoulder. He just nodded, and started gulping down his second cup, glad to be having a "date" on his terms. "Sherlock...could you tell me something?"

Calmly, he assumed his usual superior tone. "I could tell you lots of things," he informs her haughtily as he laid his empty cup aside. He already felt the effects of the stimulating beverage. He felt keen, alert, ready to process anything.

Molly smirked comfortably, secure that this was her Sherlock. It was certainly a welcome change from the stammering wreck who'd been masquerading as him yesterday. "Is this some kind of experiment for you? Or...is this something you actually want to do?"

He regarded her with a raised eyebrow. "It's an experiment that I actually want to do."

"So, what's the experiment?" Molly braced herself, certain she isn't going to like the answer. His blunt admission of an experiment already turned her off.

"People...or something close enough. Oh, that's not what I meant!" he drove a hand into his forehead as he calculated how that probably sounded to outside ears. "I meant it as a compliment, really. Here, listen...it's like what I talked to Mycroft about last night. _I'm_ not 'people', _he_ certainly isn't, John may have been once, but he isn't anymore, Mary never was but she had to act like one for a while...and you...you may have thought you were 'people', raised as one, taught to act like one, but you're..."

"I'm _what?_" she challenged, not getting the gist of it at all.

"You're like me! You're...closer...to being like me than the other way round. Do you understand? You look all unassuming and you fade into the background, but you've proven your mettle time and again. You're not the innocent flower people assume you to be. You notice everything! You use your head! We're the same, all right?! Or...close enough to it. I don't know how to better explain it, if you've never felt different. I can't be wrong about this, though, I've seen it in you. It's why I'm here."

"So, what, this was some kind of quest to find one of your own kind?! Whatever you are? Mission accomplished?"

"Molly, try to be sensible. I didn't mean it like that."

She sat back with a huff, not liking this conversation at all, but acknowledging to herself that she'd asked. "Why don't you just say what you mean?"

"I mean that I'm _here_, with_ you_ because I...because..." he petered out pitifully, then leaned in and muttered to her in an undertone, as though he was unaccustomed to saying such things aloud. "I like you, all right? We're the same, we see each other. We exist _here."_ Again, he recalled when his mind palace had taken the shape of this room. Molly had been there to guide him through his crisis. Calm and steady. _We exist here, together! _He stood up and stared down at her, taking in her expression as she grasped what he'd been trying to tell her. "You think I'd drop everything and go on a random date with just any normal knuckle-dragging _human?!_ My pool is very selective. I remember finding it incredibly annoying. All of my schoolmates paired off left and right, asking me when I planned to do the same. Next, colleagues from work did, some even tried setting me up with someone and it was always a bigger disaster than yesterday and today were combined! Just picture that! Yes. I've gone my whole life without even the _desire_ to connect with another person. I'd had no reason or use for it. Then he-" he broke off, covering his mouth. Thinking about it like this was painful, speaking of it shook him considerably. It only reminded him how badly he missed John, and how it will never be the same as it always was with him again.

"When you say 'selective' you mean just- ...Oh, Sherlock..." Her whole face glowed with her realization to how small pool was. Her, and John.

"This is _not_ meant as a "rebound"," he assured her, broadly gesturing quotation marks around the last word, as though he'd only just looked it up last night. "I just...wanted... I knew how you felt about me, you made that quite obvious. I wondered what it would be like. I wasn't trying to take advantage." Sherlock sat back down with his face in his hands, sulking again. "Can't do anything right. Stupid."

Molly sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder. He didn't pull away or make any sign of discomfort. He actually arched his back toward her touch, exposing his loneliness as well as his unshakeable trust in her. Sherlock reminded her of a feral cat that had gotten into her yard when she was young. Fierce, scrawny, wary...but she'd gotten it into her head to tame the creature. After a while, it actually came to her hand, allowed her to pet him and gentle him. Molly smiled at the memory, thinking that the experience might help her with this particular project. "You wanted to be with someone whom you knew loved you. You _wondered_ what it was like to have someone love you. That's the experiment." Pity overcame her. Just his innocent curiosity of the idea struck her as sad. When she'd first met Sherlock, she'd taken him as a personal challenge. She'd done her best to get a reaction out of him, to get him to notice her...all the while he'd seemed oblivious. It wasn't true, though. He'd always seen, always noticed her, marked her as one of his own kind. While he'd been unwaveringly uninterested in her, Molly was beginning to suspect that it wasn't out of coldness. He'd just been so frustrated for so long, accustomed to being disappointed by people. He'd given up, but that didn't mean he couldn't observe. His careless, cutting words he'd dealt her now appeared as a defense mechanism. Keeping her away to keep from being hurt, to stop her and himself from caring.

She cupped his cheek in her hand, guiding his head up, and gave him a kiss. When they parted, she smiled dreamily as the oddest expression crept up on Sherlock's face. "Do that again. For the experiment, of course."

"Of course." In that second kiss, she threw aside any hopes or expectations she had of him acting like a normal person. She'd gladly meet him on his playing field; it was what she was used to, anyway. She'd seen his moods, his manias, his bizarre joys and silent sorrows, been at his side for her share of them. "Sherlock, I love you," she whispered against his lips.

"Really?" he whispered back.

"Mmm," Molly hummed pleasurably, drawing a finger down his lips. Sherlock let her kiss him again, leaving both of them feeling strangely breathless. It acted on Sherlock's brain like a drug, like a more potent cocktail than he'd toyed with in his disreputable past. _Love...the ultimate human puzzle. Despite all reasons why she shouldn't, Molly loves me._ He'd always assumed that love was a weakness, but might it be a strength as well? Love drove Miss Hooper to his side when he needed a confederate. He was grateful for her, truly. He felt warmth creep over him, his super-computer brain went pleasantly fuzzy as he stared at her. This time, his mind shot out warnings to him: _don't do anything stupid now! _He smiled, tilting his head at her, as he pondered his experiment. He had to call it that in order for it to appear worthwhile. He certainly didn't _date_ people for normal reasons!

"Molly...stop me if I'm doing this wrong." He nuzzled gently into her hairline, down to her ear, her jaw, her neck...just grazing her as he went along. It was not an unpleasant experience, he noted. Beneath the smell of her shower soaps and body spray, he found her own personal scent. He breathed deeply, she smelled fantastic! It was all he could do not to lap at her, hungrily. Why she would want to cover that up with artificial fragrances was a complete mystery to him. Molly did nothing to stop him, she went along with his curious examination with a smile on her face. She stopped herself from giggling at his expense. It wasn't likely to be taken well if she did. For all his brashness and swagger, it struck her as rather sweet that he remained this innocent and ignorant of matters of the heart and the flesh. For some reason, he didn't dare kiss her. He figured they'd done enough of that and any more would spoil what they'd built so far. Still, he enjoyed her softness, her scent...it was strangely pleasant, as different as it was.

By some odd luck, things went well for them for several weeks. It was an uphill battle, with both parties pulling their weight every day. Sherlock, for all of his redeemable qualities, was not an easy person to love. After their first few successful dates, he'd gone back to his old manner of treating Molly. Briefly, she'd allowed it, but then fought back once she realized they were more than just colleagues and she deserved a bit more consideration at this point. It took educating him in good behavior. Everyone from John and Mary to Detective Inspector Lestrade was involved in his tutelage. Together, they groomed him to be the best that he could be. Molly had as much to learn, regarding her new boyfriend. Despite the shift in their relationship, he was still and always would be the same old Sherlock. She learned to navigate his waters, from his catatonic lethargy between cases to his glorious, energetic urgency when he was hot on the scent. She struggled at times at rousing him and keeping up with him in turn; it was like training for a marathon! After much work and a fair bit of trouble, he and Molly were ready to take things to the next level...


	3. Chapter 3

On the morning they first awoke together, Sherlock's eyes flicked open at the first trace of dawn. He glanced over next to him and sighed pleasantly at the sight of a rather tumbled-looking Molly Hooper. He drew her close, pressing her naked body into the curve of his own. He clung to her, unaware of the tears in his eyes. He'd dreamed of John that night, vividly. He wondered how long that would last. Sherlock kissed his girlfriend's shoulder. He'd learned that she liked that especially. Odd. Soon, his body reminded his mind that it was still too early, and he fell back asleep with his thoughts full of Molly. The feel of her skin, her scent, that twitchy face she still made at him when she 'translated' what he was trying to say from the awful things that still poured freely from his mouth on occasion. She was getting better. Sherlock didn't realize it, but so was he.

A few hours later, Sherlock woke again, alone. For a minute, he wondered if he'd dreamed the night before. But no...he still felt...remarkable! Replete, ridiculously contented, having satisfied a long-ignored need.

When Molly woke up, she was still in the vaporous grips of a lovely afterglow. How she could still feel him coursing through her long after they'd stopped was a mystery. She noted sadly how Sherlock had wept as he came, squeezing her tightly, crying out her name and John's together. Begging someone to hold him... That hurt will take a long time to heal, she knew she'd have to be patient. It made her wonder if she'd ever called Jim or Tom the wrong name at the wrong time. Impossible in the case of the former. If Moriarty had known how close to Sherlock she was, he would have used that advantage to their ruination. Tom, on the other hand, was (now even she can admit this) little more than a stunt-double for Sherlock. It was entirely possible in his case, she acknowledged guiltily.

She'd held Sherlock tightly in John's stead, rubbing his back and shoulders as he rode out the aftershocks, kissing his forehead, making him look at her to see who shared his bed.

"'m sorry, Molly, didn't mean to say that."

"I understand. You loved him. It will take some time."

"That felt really good. You're so nice to me."

"I love you, Sherlock," she reminded him softly as she stroked his hair.

"Mmm, thank you." And he promptly dozed off in her arms. With a resigned look, she nudged him off until he was on his side of the bed, and was surprised when he rolled over and scooped her back into his arms, purring in her ear: "We're the same." She contented herself with taking that as an "I love you, too," and soon fell asleep herself.

Molly rose a few hours later, staring through the early morning light at her lover. She stroked his cheek and tousled his hair lovingly before hopping out of bed...

Sherlock was alone in bed for less than a minute before Molly returned with a tray in her hands. She slid it onto his lap and grinned at him expectantly.

Sherlock stared at the plate in front of him: _Eggs Benedict, French-pressed coffee, the book I'd been reading the previous afternoon..._"What is all this?"

"Breakfast."

He looked at the tray in his lap, then back at her, looking rather worried. "Breakfast." He said it as though the word meant nothing to him.

"And it's getting cold," she prompted pointedly, handing him a fork. "Don't worry, I didn't poison it."

"I...didn't ask for this...did I?" He couldn't remember anyone bringing him something without asking. It didn't compute!

This isn't going anywhere near as Molly had planned. She'd never met someone who'd just sit and stare at food set in front of them. "Eat, Sherlock. You need to get your strength back," she teased playfully, kissing his temple. "You had a busy night." He still looked from the tray to the woman who'd brought it. He was tempted to retreat to his mind-palace to see what information that would yield, but he knew that was unlikely to churn up any relevant results. He just stared up at her in confusion, wondering when she was going to start making sense. Molly sighed and took the tray away. "I'll pop it in the oven to keep it warm, but it won't keep forever." She stepped out into the kitchen to take care of it and then returned, sitting back down on the bed.

"Where did you get all that, anyway?" Sherlock wanted to know. As far as he remembered, he rarely kept that much actual food in his home. Especially nothing required to make anything fancy.

"I was up early, saw you had nothing but cadavers in the fridge, so I did some shopping for you."

Again, he simply gave her the most baffled expression he could muster. "Is this normal?"

"Keeping human body parts in the kitchen isn't normal, Sherlock. Running out to buy a few things isn't unthinkable."

"But...but...what is all this? What did you do it for? What do you mean by it?! Answer me!"

By now, she'd grown past being able to be bullied by him. She looked at him sternly and spoke in an even voice. "I made you breakfast because I wanted to, I thought it was something nice to do."

"What do you want me to do?" Molly didn't answer, she just drew up her knees and laid her forehead against them. It had been cute the first few times he'd asked her direct questions like this, but it was starting to get on her nerves. Sherlock looked her over, reading this on her now with an internal groan. He'd never really thought about how others perceived him. He'd never really cared what most people thought of him, but he certainly wasn't going out of his way to annoy Molly.

She patted his shoulder, then leaned into him for closeness. "It's just breakfast, Sherlock, it's not a puzzle for you to solve."

"Everything is a puzzle. Just not everyone sees it."

Molly had to smile at this, "Well, this is an easy one. I cooked you breakfast, all you have to do is eat it."

"Did you do this for your other boyfriends?" He waited for her answer as she cringed. He found he could easily imagine her fussing over Moriarty or Tom like this. It was just the sort of person she was. Kind, generous, eager to please... "Don't answer that," he murmured, drawing an arm around her.

"I'm sorry," she squeaked, horrified at herself. Sherlock just shushed her and patted her back, it didn't matter to him. Not a day went by, though, since her former lover's true nature was revealed that she didn't feel physically ill at the thought of what she'd done for him, and with him. He'd seemed so sweet, though. She never would have suspected it of Jim Moriarty. "Maybe...maybe 'my type' really is 'sociopath'," she suggested with a wavery grin. Sherlock chuckled darkly and had to agree.

"Then come the rest of the way. Come with me. You've seen this, my world. You could live in it," he murmured with understated intensity, layering meaning to his words that he hoped she'd understand. Up until 2010, he'd been all alone in this strange world of his, then John came and joined him, and it was wonderful! Then, of course, Sherlock had to disappear, and when he came back he found he missed having someone with him. John had moved on with his life, and as much as they'd always remain friends, their partnership would never be what it had been. As this became apparent, Sherlock found he didn't like being alone as much as he used to; he'd grown accustomed to _friendship_ as strange of a concept as it was to him. Sherlock assumed he'd gone soft, hating this weakness at times. He quite liked guiding people through the maze that was his world, his life. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he wanted Molly there with him.

Molly caught his meaning, and was a little frightened by his offer. "I...I don't know. It's...scary, isn't it?"

"You'll be with me, I'll protect you. You're smart, you can manage. We're the same," he ended in a whisper.

"Maybe someday."

He was quiet for a few minutes as he pondered, then set his face resolutely and got up out of bed. He sauntered into the kitchen, stark naked, with Molly close behind. "Fine," he grunted, "I'll eat the damn eggs." He grabbed the plate from the warm oven, picked up the succulently crowned muffin and crammed the whole thing in his face, dribbling warm hollandaise sauce down his chin. Molly watched him, looking as though she was going to be sick. He swallowed loudly, wiped his face and nodded mildly. "Good," he reported, holding the second one out for his girlfriend.

_Well, when in Rome..._ she thought, picking it up and eating it with her hands as well, trying not to giggle. There was an odd sense of satisfaction, a feeling of rebellion. _This is how "non-people" do it,_ she figured. After washing up, Sherlock stalked back into his lair to take a shower, leaving Molly out in the living room, at a loss for what she's supposed or allowed to do. Any playful thoughts of joining him in the shower were banished as soon as they occurred to her. If he was that confused about someone cooking him breakfast, having her jump in the bath with him would be even more alarming. She sat down on the sofa and flipped over a nearby book: _The Complete Idiot's Guide to Dating. _She grinned at the cover, opening it and thumbing through, finding highlights on nearly every page and notes in the margins, as well as numerous corrections in bold red marker, crossing out entire sections and covering them with giant red question marks. _So that's what's going on in his head. Poor man. _ After attempting to read through the scribbled-out bits that he'd found so objectionable, she had to laugh at the ferocity of his displeasure. "How to tell if she's interested", the entire forthcoming passage was covered with two words "ASK HER" Numerous paragraphs were scrawled over, questioning the reasoning or validity of the advice, as if he expected to mail the book back to the publisher and receive a lengthy response.

Molly had gotten so lost in reading the book and her boyfriend's notes, that she didn't notice when the water turned off and Sherlock returned to the living room. He was wrapped in his blue silk robe and his hair was still damp. He froze guiltily when he saw his girlfriend's chosen reading material. She smiled up at him and set the book down. She stood up, drew her hands across his shoulders, feeling quietly pleased in an unexpected way.

Sherlock was quick to spring to his own defense. Pointing at it accusingly, he declared loudly,"That book is absolute rubbish! No help at all. It assumes quite an awful lot about human nature, about one's knowledge of conventional dating practice...bits of it are like the instructions on a box of soap: _use like regular soap!_ A lot of help, I'm sure! The rest of it is so trite and ridiculous that it's insulting to one's intelligence. Did you know that I was supposed to have introduced you to my parents already, have a long, drawn-out conversation with you over 'what we want in this relationship', and set aside 'quality time' and 'alone time'?! That, down the road, we'll be expected to agree to some formal contract, enumerating the conditions of our intended continued relationship? Does any of this sound logical to you?!" He waited, worried now that Molly will side with the dating book over his opinion of it.

"Some of it's pretty silly," she agreed. "Some may make sense down the road, depending on where it goes. It's certainly not a required template to follow. I'm fine with how things are going so far."

"Really?" When she nodded, he picked up the book and flung it in the fireplace, much to their mutual amusement. Pages blackened and crumbled, and it emitted great flares every few seconds.

"That's all the red ink! You've covered kindling in lighter fluid!" she exclaimed, getting a real laugh out of Sherlock. "I mean it, there's no set of rules we have to follow. We just ate eggs with our bare hands. We don't need to be what people expect."

Her words sink right through him, hitting his very core. It was exactly what he needed to hear! _What's wrong with being different? _He grasped her face in his hands, drew her up and kissed her. It was the first one he'd initiated since that drunken first date all those weeks ago. His technique had certainly improved in the meantime. Things were going fine. They'll figure it out...He froze with his arms around her, slipping into one of his trances. This is the first time he'd done that without calling for absolute privacy.

Molly bravely broke the silence, having rightly interpreted it. "Mind palace?"

"Mmm," he confirmed distractedly, his eyes flicking back and forth beneath his eyelids.

She nodded in understanding, going quiet again. Minutes dragged out. He drew away slightly to look at her.

"You're there," Sherlock uttered simply. "Did I ever tell you that?"

"I'm...what?"

"Up here," he tapped his forehead. "You're here."

Molly furrowed her brow in thought, "Why? How?"

"Because I need you. You've helped me. Helped me stay alive. You're here. Mine. You're...part of me, Molly. You're one of my voices. I..." Sherlock found he didn't know the words to describe it, this need to have her, the pleasure he had in that she was part of him. "You're very smart, Molly. Kind, brave...You give good advice."

She let herself relax in his arms, squeezing him reassuringly. "Is that what she's doing now?" Molly felt him nod. "What does she say?"

"She wants me to keep you. Tells me not to screw it up." They both laughed softly at this. Molly felt pleased with this revelation. She didn't know much about what went on in that head of his, but he'd described it to her before, or tried to. There were dozens of rooms filled with memories, and a few people who were closest to him lived there, too. Apparently, a room in his mind was the St. Bart's morgue, where she existed, where he went to for calm, solid advice. Usually when the question was medical in nature. Other times, when he needed a friend who could slap some sense into him. One of his voices, part of him. Molly could appreciate the significance of this: she was in his mind, and, whether or not he could outright say it, she felt she had a place in his heart as well.


	4. Chapter 4

Months passed, and Sherlock and Molly continued seeing each other, their private lives overlapping comfortably with their professional ones. Molly was quick to realize that when her beau was in work mode, he wouldn't stand for any outward sign that they were an item, apart from actually saying "thank you" when she brought him coffee. In the times that she wasn't stuck late at work and when his business was slow, they'd meet, have dinner occasionally, and some nights one would follow the other home for the night. It wasn't always textbook romantic, though. Half the time, Sherlock would simply leave the lab without a word, hole up at Baker Street and brood to himself. He needed these quiet nights alone, to think. As much as he'd grown attuned to Molly, he needed time away from her as well. She was just too cheerful for his moods sometimes!

He'd given John a running commentary of his relationship, asking advice, scoffing at said advice, and grudgingly agreeing to try said advice. Since his daughter was born, John had had to step back his role with the consulting detective's business. He had a real job, a family, a house in the suburbs. He couldn't just dash off to be at Sherlock's side at a moment's notice. As much as he understood, it still gave Sherlock a sense of loneliness, that some crucial element of his life was missing and might not ever return.

One day, John had the day off, and decided to head back to his old stomping grounds. He climbed the old staircase, opened the door to the flat just a crack, and heard a familiar conversation-

"How do you feel about the violin?"

"What?"

"The violin. I play when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't speak for days...would that bother you? If we're to live together we ought to know the worst of each other."

Awash with a tingling sense of deja vu, John pushed the door open the rest of the way and found Sherlock addressing Molly with the same warnings he'd given him all those years ago.

"It's kind of sudden, isn't it?" Molly asked.

"Not at all. We've been involved with each other for five months, twelve days, it appears we compliment each other and I have no intention of ending the relationship. Unless you're planning to?"

"Oh!" She gasped. "No, nothing like that! Just...I...I'll have to think about it."

"The math works out," Sherlock announced, handing her a household budget chart he'd drawn up for this purpose. "If we combined our assets, we'd decrease our expenses."

She read the paper and nodded in agreement, then laid it aside. "Sound business practice, yes, but...let me sleep on it a bit, all right?"

It was then that they discovered they had an eavesdropper in their midst. John let himself in the rest of the way and surveyed the couple.

"Things going well, it sounds like?"

Molly looked between the two men, wondering if she should stay or leave them alone. "Yeah, it's been interesting, but, going fine."

"I may actually have the hang of this," Sherlock grinned. "Either that, or I found a very accommodating girlfriend."

"Might be both," John suggested. "Is this a bad time? Sorry I didn't call ahead. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop in."

Something was off about the way the two men were speaking to each other, as if they barely knew each other! "Maybe I'd better go, let you two get caught up," Molly offered, grabbing her purse and giving Sherlock a kiss goodbye. When the door shut, Sherlock fell into a chair as though he'd been at attention all this time. He gestured broadly at the one across from him and Watson took it.

"You all right?" he asked in a much more natural tone.

Sherlock grunted with a nod, looking moody and bored as usual. "How long does this typically last? How long before we can go back to how things were?"

"How...what things were?"

"I miss 'just Molly'. She was so much easier. This one talks so much, wants _me_ to talk back! She knows me, but she still uses that look on her face. You know the one?"

"Are we talking about the 'You disgusting creep' face or the 'Are you crazy?' face?"

"Hmm...second one. I care for her, John, but she's all sweet and happy and I half expect cartoon butterflies to follow her around in swarms. I need my dark back! I don't want to call it off-"

"I know, I heard you...suggest she move in with you. If you can't stand her now, though...why would you want to live with her?"

"It would certainly help her gain some level of familiarity."

John smiled, reached out and patted his friend's knee. "She's still in the honeymoon phase. Still on her best behavior. She's happy."

"She's Julie Andrews," Sherlock groused. "I like it better when we're in the morgue. She has a good morbid sense of humor, too. She doesn't shock as easily as she pretends," he voiced with a sinister grin. "I was half-right about her. We are sort of the same...only she doesn't want to be. I don't think Molly realizes that I love the parts of her that she hates. The parts of her that have seen darkness, have striven against it. Her strength, her cunning! She was forged in darkness and lets herself wilt in the ghastly light of day! Why would she do that to herself? She's marvelous!"

Molly stood behind the closed door, listening to Sherlock voice his honest opinion of her for the first time since they were together. It twisted inside her, but it wasn't a surprise, really. He was a nighttime creature; he craved darkness and death, gloried in the shadowy underbelly of the sparkling city. He cheered up at the promise of 'a good murder.' Yet he gravitated to her, of all people. It made her see that in spite of himself, he needed his share of light. He'd gotten it from John in the beginning, then fell so far from it in his exile that he'd almost forgotten it by the time he journeyed home. She wondered if he resisted her because she reminded him too much of John. Made him worry that he would lose her, too. She felt rather proud that he thought so much of her less-desirable qualities, the parts that she didn't especially like. She wondered about creeping into the dark with him, what might that be like?

"Just give her time to let her hair down again," John told him. "She'll calm down soon enough. You may have given up on your 'best behavior' act after the first month, but she's probably still trying so hard to keep you."

"Then she should stop trying so bloody hard! Do I look high-maintenance to you?! I l- I like her...I care for her, I've gotten used to her being around. We know how the other takes their coffee, John! Explain why I care how she takes her coffee?! It's in there!" He poked his forehead furiously. "Two and a half second splash of cream, two sugars, then the coffee. Never the wrong way round! Or... why do I go to the same Thai place with her all the time when we haven't been to our old spot in ages!? I'd commit murder for an order of dumplings, for two I'd rig it to pin the job on Anderson! But why in the hell do I care what she likes or wants?! She's here, she's here with me. When did _she _get a spot in my head? Even before all this...I've found Molly here. Wandering through my mind like a ghost, there when I need her. Need her?! What does it mean? Am I dying?" He drooped his head down into his hands with a frustrated moan.

John got up and knelt down in front of Sherlock. He brushed his hair back soothingly. "You're not dying, and I don't know how she got in your head, but I'm guessing it's not a bad thing. You still have a lot to learn about dating someone. Talk to her about this, not me."

"Don't stop," Sherlock whispered, placing his hands over John's drawing them over his tumbled locks some more, feeling soothed by it. "You kept me sane, did you know that? I miss you."

"I know," he answered, petting him once more before standing back up. "This isn't about just you or just her. A relationship is like being partners with someone. Equal shares, right? So, for starters, you can tell her you'd really rather go to our old dim sum place down the street if you're sick to death of Thai. Also, let her know that just because you need time apart, it doesn't mean you don't care for her. Maybe she needs a break from you, too, some days, but is too polite to say anything. What I mean is, you should be direct about these sorts of things before one or both of you gets hurt."

"She gets angry when I'm direct," Sherlock muttered petulantly.

"There's a difference between direct and tactless."

"I...I don't want to see her make that face at me. You know I don't care what a lot of people think of me...but for the few that I do, it matters."

"You never tiptoed around my feelings or got bothered by my opinion of you," John almost laughed.

"I still cared! And you never made me feel as though I let you down, like I'm some kind of barely-human freak."

John flinched at the word, remembering vividly how many times Sergeant Donovan threw it at his friend. She called him that as though it was his name! While he never made an outward sign that it bothered him, it clearly did. If he was getting the same treatment from the woman he was dating..."Molly makes you feel like that?"

Sherlock slumped backwards in his seat, thrusting his legs out. "No, I'm just afraid of her seeing that in me. Waking up some morning and regretting wasting this time and effort. I'm not a nice person, you know that! But she wants me to be."

"You're not a nice person, you're right. But you're a good person. I think she knows that. I'm sure she's learned quite a lot from you already. About how you act, what you say versus what you mean..."

He smiled vaguely at this. "She's getting better at that."

"See?"

"She deserves someone who knows how to be nice to her. I don't know why she still wants me after all this time. She's been treated like crap by so many people and she's the sweetest person on Earth."

John wandered behind his friend's chair and rubbed his shoulders. "You know how you said you can see her darkness and you love it? I think she sees your light, and loves that. Not many people get to see it, but I have, and it's beautiful. It's good and bright and heroic. Whatever else you are, you are_ fiercely_ loyal. I love that about you. But do I ever miss your dark. I think I've had the most fun with your dark."

"So, you haven't forgotten," Sherlock rumbled softly, surprised at how sentimental this made him feel. "Good. Maybe we're still the same, then. Maybe...maybe she can come with us sometime when we're on a case together! I'd like that! She'd be wonderful if she gave herself half a chance!"

John nodded, considering this. "Make sure she wears comfortable shoes. And Mary could come and it would be like a double-date!" They laughed together, both of them remembering their first night, their first case. The excitement and urgency of the moment that made John forget his limp and gallop halfway across London on the heels of a mad detective whom he'd just met.

Molly smiled at this and crept away, pleased that while her boyfriend might be the most mixed-up person on the planet, he honestly was trying. After nearly six months, she was still frequently confused by him, but she didn't let that bother her. The idea of being invited on one of their cases sounded promising. She remembered the time that Sherlock had her fill in for John after he'd come back from the dead. It was fun, but not something she could do every day. Maybe every once in a while, though...

He hadn't said the words yet, but his continual assertions that they were "the same" had taken the place of "I love you" in her heart. For him to even want someone to be the same as him was high praise. For him to look her square in the eye and say "I know you, you're like me! Come with me!" was more than she could have hoped for. In her mind's eye, Molly saw Sherlock extending his hand to her, inviting her to share his world. It was exciting and frightening at the same time, but...might that mean that he was just as afraid of her "normal" world? And he'd endured it for her sake for all this time.

She walked home, thinking all of this over, weighing it out in her mind. _He loves me! He's terrified of it, of caring for another person, and he isn't capable of saying it straight out, but he still loves me! He does things for me he'd rather not, just because they're what I like. _She made a mental note to suggest his dim sum restaurant next time, just to see the look on his face. _He may not strike others as a thoughtful person, but he's been so considerate at times. Sherlock probably doesn't even mean to be rude when he comes off that way, it just means he considers me safe territory. I need to start acting like that. He can be himself around me and not worry. I don't have to try so hard around him, either. That may help him feel better._

Back at Baker Street, the air had been sufficiently cleared, and things certainly looked brighter and more hopeful all around. "Did you say you've been with Molly for nearly six months?"

"Five months, twelve days," Sherlock repeated matter-of-factly.

"Going to do anything for your anniversary?"

"Anniversary?"

"Women love that stuff. Just something special to mark your six months as a couple."

Sherlock considered this, reaching for his violin and scratching out a thoughtful screech. "Hmm...I suppose that wouldn't be the time to take her on a case. Although, that would be special to me."

"Nothing traumatic or dangerous," John advised. "Keep it simple. Buy her a little something and hide it somewhere, play like it's a treasure hunt."

Sherlock's eyes brightened at this prospect! It took him right back to his childhood ambition to become a pirate. "Oh, I loved playing treasure hunt! I can leave all sorts of clues for her to find, excellent! Business with pleasure," he sniggered, scraping his bow gleefully against the strings in an improvised reel . "Perfect idea, John! I'm going to get started right away, I've not a moment to lose!"

Taking the hint for what it was, Watson stood and let himself out, leaving his friend to his planning. "Catch you later, then. Have fun; can't wait to hear all about it." He was just out the door when he peeked back in. "Don't do anything too weird," he advised, looking genuinely concerned.

With a steady, innocent gaze, Sherlock blinked at him. "Of course not, don't be silly."

"Says the man who steals brains from the hospital for fun," he rejoined smoothly as the door drifted shut behind him.

Three weeks later, Molly ran up the stairs to Sherlock's flat, bringing a suitcase of her things as she gradually moved in. She was met by an awful shock! Her eyes dragged across the room; chairs were thrown back, papers tossed askew, all the marks of a mighty struggle. The next second, her phone beeped to alert her to a text message:

_Molly, please come find me. -SH_

_Where are you?!-MH _ She texted back.

_Can't tell. Look around, there must be clues you can follow. I'm counting on you! No more texts now. See you soon, I hope!-SH_

Sherlock sat in a lawn chair on top of a parking garage, grinning his face off as he sent Molly on her hunt. He'd even gotten her a "little something". He fingered the ring box in his coat pocket with a sensation of butterflies. He'd spent a good deal of time lately thinking this through, and it seemed the most logical course of action. Spending the next fifty or so years with Molly was actually starting to sound appealing. She had a number of excellent qualities, the most important and rare of them all was her ability to be in the same room as him without wanting to commit murder. If the basic rules of genetics panned out as they should, their children would be highly intelligent as well as beautiful, although the thought of parenting still gave Sherlock pause. He brushed it aside. No use worrying about that yet!

He checked his phone for the time, having set a stopwatch on her. Twenty minutes. He'd set her on a tricky case, yes, but mentally revisiting the clues he'd left for her made him certain that she would find him in a little over an hour. Two, maximum, when traffic time is factored in.

Meanwhile, Molly Hooper burst into Scotland Yard, looking frantically everywhere. "Somebody help! Sherlock's been taken, kidnapped! He sent me a text but then his captors must have taken his phone from him. Oh, I hope he's not hurt!"

Detective Inspector Lestrade stepped forward to receive his colleague's anxious girlfriend. "Now let's just stay calm and not jump to the worst possible scenario. What makes you think he was kidnapped?"

"His flat's a mess, moreso than usual, even! Things flung everywhere, like there'd been a fight!"

Lestrade shrugged into his jacket and strode out with her, ushering her into the squad car. They drove back to Baker Street, both of them feeling sick with anxiety. Sherlock had his share of enemies, that was no secret. Who could it be?

Sherlock paced restlessly along the roof that was his hiding place. He kept checking the time, wondering where in the world Molly was and what was taking her so long. Just then, his phone rang!

"John, hello! So, I used your idea, but I don't think it's working."

"Sherlock, are you all right?!"

"Course I am; why wouldn't I be?"

"For god's sake, Sherlock, Molly's been rounding up half the police looking for you! They just phoned me up, saying you're missing, asking me if I knew anything!"

The detective rolled his eyes, groaning in disappointment. "But that's cheating, John! She's not playing fair if she gets help!"

"Gets...help? Cheating? What the hell are you talking about?!" John demanded, at wit's end.

"The treasure hunt! I'm hiding somewhere in London, I set her a bunch of clues to follow, and she has to find me! Brilliant, isn't it? Isn't it? Hello?" Sherlock wasn't entirely sure, but it sounded like John was beating himself over the head with something.

"Get back home. Now."

"But that would spoil the surprise," he whined.

"Now, Sherlock! And you'd better explain it to Molly, because I'm not going to do it for you!" And he hung up.

Holmes peered over the edge of the building, pouting to himself. He heaved a melodramatic sigh and dragged his feet back to the elevator...

Twenty minutes later, he arrived at the Yard. He barely made it in the door when Molly flung herself at him!

"Oh, Sherlock, thank heavens! You're all right, you're all right!"

He held her dumbly, feeling tears seep through the shoulder of his suit. He could feel her hammering heart through her chest pressed tight against him. Truth be told, he wasn't all that pleased to see her at the moment. All that work he'd put into his elaborate game felt wasted with such an anticlimactic ending of him just walking through the door and into her waiting arms.

Everyone else in the room was peering at the pair of them curiously. The man they'd been ordered to scour London for just turned up without a scratch on him. Mutterings of "wasting police time" murmured mutinously across their desks.

"Let's get you home. You must be in shock," Molly suggested, holding his hand to her cheek. "Oh, I'm so glad you're safe."

Throughout their cab ride home, Molly finally realized that he hadn't said a word to her since his reappearance. She chalked it up to shock, and waited to hear what horrors he'd endured when he was ready. She just petted his arm and leg soothingly, cuddling in, draping his arm around her. He sat as stiff as a statue, not even looking at her. Soon, they were in front of 221B. Sherlock paid the driver and hauled himself upstairs without giving his lady companion a second glance. She followed behind, wishing he would say something. When they reached the living room, Sherlock whipped off his coat savagely, flinging it onto a chair as if it had done him personal wrong. He then threw himself onto the sofa with his back to Molly, in full sulk mode.

"Sherlock? Please tell me what happened to you."

He turned his head, staring at her with a look of cold anger and disappointment in his eyes. He turned back around without speaking, just huffing a sharp sigh.

"Talk to me," she pleaded softly, unable to grasp what has gotten him so upset.

"You spoiled the surprise," he muttered darkly. "It wasn't easy to set up, you know!"

"Surprise? Set up? What are you talking about? Are you saying you weren't really kidnapped? That you were fine this whole time?!"

"I waited for three hours," he reported. "I was sure you'd come! Then I found out you'd gotten the police involved! John called and told me. That's cheating, Hooper! I left all those clues and I'm starting to wonder if you even found one of them. Weeks of planning down the drain. I'd even gotten you something, if you'd worked it out. I was going to give it to you after you solved it," he muttered, curled up with his back to her.

"Dammit, Sherlock, I thought you were dead or in trouble or something!" Molly shrieked, beating his back and shoulders with her hands. "Do you have any idea the worry you caused me?! Don't you care I thought you were snatched up by some criminal mastermind and held against your will? After everything that's happened to you already?! Who does that, Sherlock?! Why on Earth did you do that to me?!"

"It was a game!" He rolled over, shouting now himself. "I wanted to play with you. It was my favorite game when I was a kid. I wanted you to...to join in the fun with me. I was trying to say..." He gave up that train of thought, went back to already-covered ground. "All that effort, wasted! Actually, for the record, it was John's idea."

"His idea? So, he knew-"

Sherlock sighed heavily, sitting up but holding his face in his hands. "No, he wasn't 'in on it.' He told me that a cute thing that couples do was to set up a treasure hunt and have their significant other follow a set of clues to reach a prize. Finally, I thought, something that made sense to me! Something I knew how to do! Well, I wasn't going to just leave what I'd gotten you lying around the streets of London, so I hid myself along with it. Why didn't you try to find me?"

Molly was getting over her righteous anger, and sat down next to him. "You could have told me it was a game. I was really scared! Of course I'd go to the police."

They sat silently for a bit as Molly let her boyfriend have his pout. She tried putting herself in his shoes for a minute, then found she didn't have to. He obviously felt as bad as she did that Christmas when he'd been especially acid to her in front of everybody. She was certain she hated him then. Then, he'd made that face, shown actual remorse. As cruel and thoughtless of things as he'd said to her, he'd obviously not meant them as bitingly as they'd come across. He'd never suspected she had feelings to hurt when it came to him. Remembering how stung she'd felt that night, adding in the fact that Sherlock isn't used to being affected by other people, made her feel bad for disappointing him so much today. It was something he'd clearly put a lot of work into.

"Can you show me the clues?"

"First one's on the floor," he grunted disinterestedly. "Shopping list, see?"

"That's a clue?"

"How many times have you seen me write a shopping list, Molly? Anyway, that was supposed to make you go down and follow it, where you'd find those things. Each place was supposed to give you part of the next clue, and so on and so forth." He sighed again, leaning back and slouching down gloomily. "If you want your prize, it's in my coat pocket," he pointed vaguely in its direction. "You probably won't want it now, though."

Molly stood up, curious what he had gotten her, while he lay back down with his face to the wall. She reached into his right-hand coat pocket and withdrew a small square box. A note was stuck to it, reading "Life is a puzzle. Let's solve it together."

Sherlock heard her gasp at the sight of the engagement ring and braced himself to have it flung at his head. Seconds drew out and the blow never came. Gingerly, he rolled over to face her. He watched her as she just stared at it in her hand. She hadn't put it on, though, he noted significantly. "I just wanted to play a game with you," he repeated, "I didn't mean to make you worry. It's not something I think of. Nobody's ever cared that much before.

"You'd be surprised."

He flicked his eyes between the ring box and Molly, anxious for her official answer. "Well?"

Molly crouched down next to him, trying to keep a straight face. "You are a real piece of work, Sherlock Holmes. Any sane person would tell you to take this ring and shove it up your—chimney." More disappointment, more sulkiness washed up on his face at this pronouncement. Then, she leaned in and whispered playfully. "Good thing I'm neither." And she handed him the ring box, holding out her left hand.

He actually looked surprised! He breathed a short, hysterical laugh and slid it onto her ring finger, a spasmodic smile twitching at his face. "Well, that wasn't so bad! Glad that's over with!"

Molly bit her lip and put her hand over her intended's mouth. "Don't spoil it by talking."

"Mmm-hmm."

Molly took her hand away and gave him a kiss, looking so happy that she nearly sparkled as much as her new ring. Then, a shadow of worry darkened her features and she drew a hand up to her own lips.

"My parents! They don't even know you!"

"I think that's for the best," Sherlock supposed realistically. He sat up, looking up at her. "They don't need to meet me; it would be perfectly fine if they didn't."

"Sherlock, don't be silly. You have to meet them eventually."

"Do I?"

Molly folded her arms over her chest. "Yes, you do. Just like I'll have to be better acquainted with your family, too. I only met your brother once, and I've never even heard you mention your parents. I know they're still alive, though, and they can't be that bad."

"Molly, words cannot describe how much I don't need to be brought into your happy little fold. They won't like me, which, ordinarily, I wouldn't concern myself about. Still, it would be a poor reflection on you by association. That I was the best you could manage. I mean, I'm not trying to be modest. I know intellectually I run circles around ordinary people, but when it comes to other...qualities that parents would wish for their daughter to find in a husband..." he went pale at that word, gulping heavily. He immediately berated himself for that reaction. "Pull yourself together, it's just a word! Yes, like that other one you can't say to her," Sherlock murmured to himself crazily. "It's just me and Molly, that's all it means. Just means that I...want to take care of her, always. And of course I do. Simple. Afraid? Who's afraid? Certainly not me."

"I _can_ hear you, you know," his fiancee reminded him, scooting in next to him again and slipping her hand in his. He brushed her fingers, examining how the ring looked on her finger. The size is just right. Large enough for her to show off but not garish. Suddenly, he was gripped with a wild impulse, he slouched against Molly's body, holding her tightly as he rested his head against her shoulder.

She drew her arms around Sherlock's shoulders, nuzzling her face through his hair. "What's this for?" she whispered.

"I don't know. Just wanted to. Let me hold you."

Molly had always been aware that Sherlock wasn't naturally physically affectionate. On rare occasions he would be the one to initiate a kiss or touch her, but it never seemed to have this much feeling behind it. He was cuddling her like a security blanket, just savoring her tenderly. She wondered what the change was in relation to. "Always. What's come over you?"

"Still not used to it, being able to. Allowed to," he confessed, blushing with embarrassment and desire. "All the other times before, if I got this way, I'd have to act like an insufferable bastard to make sure he'd stay at a safe distance or leave the flat until I calmed down." The words were out of his mouth just after he realized they were inappropriate. "I...shouldn't have said that." He grimaced, still holding onto his betrothed. "I'm just glad I can now, and I want to. I do, really." Sherlock pulled away and looked at her with a faltering smile. "Just not used to this. I don't think I ever will be. Hurts...It's a good kind of hurting, though, I think. It has to hurt if it's to heal. Right?"

As uncomfortable as it was to be compared to "the one who got away", Molly felt for him there. Even when she was the most ridiculous in her infatuation with Sherlock, she'd still had past experience to her name. The only other person that Sherlock had ever loved couldn't love him back the same way. He'd grown accustomed to directly associating love and desire with frustration and heartache, never dreaming that someday it might be returned in equal measure, that acting on such impulses would be allowed and welcomed. It would take him a long time to trust her implicitly, that she wouldn't send him away or mock his awkward attempts at showing love.

"_I was trying to say..."_

_He was trying to say he loves me. That overwrought attempt at a treasure-hunt was him trying desperately to tell me he loves me. He'll be able to say it someday, but I won't force him to when it's so well understood._

Molly simply held him, letting him nearly squeeze the breath out of her, if it would comfort him now. It was like all those times when they made love that ended with Sherlock crying. She never asked him why, worried that it would be opening a can of worms. _Maybe I should. _She moved, just shifting position to be more comfortable, and he pressed his face into her shoulder.

"Stay. Please stay."

"I'm not going anywhere, I promise." She eased him away enough to look at his face, laving his mouth with soft, languid kisses.

Sherlock purred pleasurably as he tasted her. "Mmm, I, mmm, like that." Then, he just snapped out of it. In the blink of an eye, he was back to his stiff, calculating self. His eyes darted all over Molly's body with a curious squint. He sniffed the air around them...then directly on her...Without a word, Sherlock reached into Molly's jacket and pulled out his scarf.

Molly was stunned. "You could _smell_ that?"

"Something smelled like me. What were you doing with this? Surely it wasn't for search dogs to find my trail. You'd contaminated it with your own scent by handling it. If that had been the reason, you would have stuck it in a plastic bag to preserve it. You...you didn't think you'd see me alive again. You wanted something of mine."

She nodded, reliving that morbid fear, that horror. "I wanted something...that had been close to you."

"Yes. Not only something that belonged _to_ me but _on _me." Sherlock pondered the level of her sentimentality. He wondered if he would have the same desire if anything happened to her...or John for that matter. He imagined himself curling up with articles of their clothing, being comforted by a false sense of nearness. He brushed it aside as silly.

Molly stood up and hung the scarf back on its peg, then sat back down next to her fiance, still at a loss for how he'd managed that. "People can't _smell_ themselves, pick out their own scent! We've basically lost our ability to identify individual peoples' scents, period, let alone our own! And in a room full of your stuff, too. _Everything_ would smell like you!"

Sherlock smirked at her with his eyebrows raised. "People can't," he uttered with understated pleasure. "We can."

She swatted him, unable to deny that she definitely could. It was highly unique and quite inviting. It even changed subtly according to his moods. There was a marked difference between the one that said "hold me" and the one that communicated "go away!" even if it would have been undetectable to anyone else.

"So, about my parents-"

"What about them?" he groaned. He'd hoped he'd sufficiently changed the subject, but there seemed no stopping her.

"I have to at least call them to tell them the news. You can talk to them a bit, too." Molly read his face and could see the worry etched there. "Nothing they say will change my answer. I promise."

Sherlock said nothing, but squeezed her hand. He'd often wondered when she'd have had enough, when she'd grow sick of him and seek other company. He certainly wasn't Prince Charming, but somehow they enjoyed each other. For some unfathomable reason, Molly wanted to be with him!

She stood up and traipsed around the room idly as she rang her parents, holding up crossed fingers for luck.

"Hi, Dad! Look, I have really big news. Is Mum there? All right, we can tell her later. I'm getting married! No, Tom and I broke it off, remember? You haven't met this one. No, I don't think this is sudden. I've known him for years but he wasn't...available. Sure, here he is" She held the phone out to Sherlock and he took it with wide eyes and a shaking head. "Go on," she whispered. "And be nice!"

_This is worse than having to give a best man speech. At least then I had notes to go on! _He thought grimly as he took the phone from her hand. "Uh, hello? Mr. Hooper?"

"Yes, and can you tell me who you are? My daughter didn't mention any names."

"Oh, well, maybe you've heard of me. I'm Sherlock Holmes. Bit surprised Molly hadn't mentioned that."

There's a pause, then Mr. Hooper spoke again. "You're the guy with the hat?"

"Yes," he forced out in fake calm, irritation written on all of his features. "The guy with the hat."

"I've heard of you. Figured you were some kind of a nut."

"Yes, well, that's debatable. Molly doesn't seem to mind it, though."

She could tell he was dying here, but couldn't do much more than give him an encouraging gesture.

The detective was never sure afterward exactly what happened, but he could only assume that in the stress of the moment, his brain short-circuited and shot out the first random thing it hit upon-

"Mr. Hooper, I have been courting your daughter in earnest these past six months and would like your permission to ask for her hand." Sherlock's face was drawn in surprise at his own words. He shouted across the room: "Where the hell did that come from?! One minute I'm trying to convince your father I'm not crazy, the next I start talking like someone out of a Jane Austen novel!" He put the phone back to his ear, waiting for a response. All he could hear was the man on the other end laughing.

"I think it would be better if we met face-to-face, don't you, Mr. Holmes?"

"I make no guarantees that I'm any more palatable in person than I am on the phone. Molly seems to think it's important that we meet, though, so I suppose it could be penciled in." He turned on the tittering woman in the room. "Oh, shut up!" He practically threw the phone back at her so she could resume her chat. He slunk off to the bedroom and slammed the door dramatically. Moments later, she heard violin music wail out tunelessly.

Molly wrapped up her conversation with her father and joined the moody man on the bed. "Sunday after next, we're having brunch with my parents. Just be yourself."

At these words, a grim smile spread on her fiance's face. He sniggered at the thoughts racing through his brain. "Promise?" He looked like a kid who has just been told that the circus is in town!

"Promise what?"

"That I can be myself?" He looked quite touched by the suggestion. She wasn't ashamed of him, or wishing he'd change.

His savage grin was met with one of her own. "I wouldn't want anything else from you."

Baring his teeth at her with a dark chuckle, he pulled her close, "I like you, Molly Hooper."


	5. Chapter 5

After that, business picked up significantly for both of them, and their time together off the clock would have been short indeed if Molly hadn't agreed to move in with him. Nothing, not even living with John, could have prepared Sherlock for living with Molly. As familiar as they'd become to each other, since they'd both by now let their hair down and shown their truest selves, Sherlock knew that his fiancee wouldn't stand for being brushed aside and addressed with "comfortable" insults as John had. In some ways, it made him miss him even more. Molly brought with her her own brand of domesticity. While she didn't go to the extremes she might have liked, she effectively tidied and organised their flat into something resembling order. She left the back wall as it was, but managed to clear out Sherlock's experimental materials from the main refrigerator, moving his things into a dorm fridge near his desk. She cleared an entire shelf for his test tubes and burners to keep the dining table clear so they could actually use it as such. After some prodding, she even managed to convince him to eat on a daily basis and not rely solely on takeaway. Sherlock fought back, of course, treating Molly to nightly violin solos of his own composition as he angsted over his latest cases. He would keep moving his skull around for her to find it in different places, getting rewarded every day or two with an alarmed shriek when it turned up again. That little game kept him entertained for days on end. Then, inevitably, their work and home lives met and he would draw Molly into aiding his investigations. She would read over his shoulder, follow along with her own notes, and through their respective points of view, they'd reach a conclusion together. The first time they did this together on their own time, rather than on the clock, was remarkable in how natural it felt, not to mention enjoyable! So much for quiet nights at home! Molly knew she was officially part of the team when Sherlock gave her a pair of good running shoes, a long navy blue coat, and one of Lestrade's extra ID cards. John unflinchingly accepted her as a normal addition to their partnership on days that he got to join in the fun. Two had effectively become three, and occasionally four or five! One big, happy family of detectives. John had even caught Sherlock trying to tutor his baby girl in the science of deduction through the mesh of her portable playpen. He even let her wear his ridiculous hat!

In the early days following their engagement, they tried to keep it low-profile, even though it soon filtered out that they were living together. Breaking the news of their engagement to their coworkers was suggested to be good practice for meeting Molly's parents for the first time. Sherlock certainly wasn't looking forward to it.

The day of reckoning had finally arrived. It found Sherlock smartly dressed as usual, looking cool and impassive as can be. Molly's permission to "be himself" was the only confidence booster he needed. He loved himself! He could splash himself upon every wall of every room he walked into! He strutted with the careless grace of a peacock in mating season, with his bride-to-be on his arm. Just knowing he had Molly's unwavering approval was all the permission he needed to relax. He rang the doorbell and Molly's parents answered it together. They let out exclamations of happiness and false surprise at seeing their daughter, as though this wasn't all planned in more detail than a full-scale military invasion. Mr. Hooper gave Sherlock a once-over before extending a hand to him. The latter took it with a reptilian grin, scanning over his future father-in-law at his leisure. _Nonsmoker for 20+ years, retired cubicle-dweller, habitual poor posture from 40 years at a desk. Hair damp, sweatband marks still evident, morning jogger. Cat hairs on dress pants, Siamese... _Molly broke his train of thought with a knowing look and a pleading headshake. _Not now._

"Well, well. Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh. Thought you'd be wearing the hat!"

Sherlock groaned, still forcing a smile, silently begging Molly to help him.

"He doesn't really wear the hat, Dad. The first time it was just for a disguise, and people just sort of latched on. He does it for the public since they like it, but not for this," she explained, hearing a sigh of relief beside her.

"Thank you for having us," he said stiltedly, like he was reciting prepared lines.

They were ushered in and they hung up their coats. Molly's mother gave Sherlock an appraising look as she led them into the dining room. "I remember those awful news stories about you from a few years back. Wasn't there something about you hiring an actor to play a master criminal just so you could beat him over and over?"

"You are very much mistaken, Mrs. Hooper," Sherlock growled. "Moriarty was proven indeed to be a very real threat. His elaborate cover story was a hoax hatched to turn those I would protect against me. Your daughter was among a _highly_ select few who weren't taken in by such lies! She shielded me, protected me...and was instrumental in my final blow against him! I couldn't have done it without her. We're very much alike, you see. I trust her completely. Molly is...absolutely brilliant." He turned to look at his fiancee and smiled at her floored expression. Never had she heard such praise! And from him!

"Which means you suggest that _you're_ brilliant," Mr. Hooper was quick to note.

"Well, yes. I am." He glanced once again at Molly and saw her utter humiliation written all over her face. That her parents would take the media's side against him, years after his innocence was proven!

"He is," Molly agreed simply, gazing at him fondly and taking his arm. "I think he's wonderful."

They were off to a bad start, that was clear to everyone. This wasn't a simple meeting of new in-laws, this was starting to feel like an interrogation.

"Well, we know our Molly is capable of more than what she's doing. Think you'll get brave enough to look for a real job sometime?" her father jibes. It sounded like an old, sore subject that got trotted out at the nearest opportunity.

"I have a job, Dad."

"You know if you put your mind to it, though, you could be a real doctor."

Sherlock scowled, feeling his anger build. He could take slights against his character from these _people_, but dragging Molly down was too far. "Molly the best I've seen in her field. She is very much a real doctor, Mr. Hooper. Far be it from me to contradict my _gracious _host, but it's the truth. She's not lacking bravery, intelligence, cunning, or tenacity. She does what she does because it's what speaks to her."

Mrs. Hooper curls her lip, "Wonderful. Dead people talk to my daughter."

"I rather enjoy their company myself. They're much better behaved, not to mention more useful, than some," Sherlock suggested pointedly. He turned and muttered to the speechless woman next to him, "You said be myself, right?" She nodded gratefully, putting her hand over his as she watched her mother disappear into the kitchen.

"Go help your mother," Mr. Hooper barked, keeping a keen eye on his daughter's intended. Molly got up and followed, leaving the men to have their little standoff.

Sherlock gazed intently at the other man with his hands pointed beneath his lips. He was just about to say something when he heard an unmistakable shrill shriek of laughter, followed by a hasty "Nothing, nothing!"

"What do you think that was about?"

Sherlock simply shrugged with a smug pout. A moment later, Molly and her mother returned and set the table. It looked like they'd had words. Molly looked exhausted already, or at least in need of a stiff drink. While it seemed her parents meant well, they were about as bad as he used to be at showing support and affection. He made a mental note to be a bit more obvious in the future.

Sherlock read her distress on her in an instant and was ready to defend her at the next opportunity.

"So, what is it you do, exactly?" Mr. Hooper started in on him again.

"If you'd read the stories, you'd know. I'm a consulting detective."

"Only one in the world," Molly smiled proudly as she went back to the kitchen for the next load. Mrs. Hooper poured coffee and orange juice. Molly scuttled back quickly with a sugar bowl and cream pitcher, stirring two spoonfuls of sugar into Sherlock's cup. He smiled up at her, startled by how that simple gesture still touched him. He then saw to his fiancee's, pouring a precisely timed splash of cream and two sugars into her empty mug. He poured out for her, getting a surprised eyebrow-raise from Mr. Hooper.

"Molly doesn't drink coffee."

"Yes, she does," Sherlock answered simply. 

"You think you know her better than her own parents?"

With a haughty expression, he smirked across the table. "I'm starting to, yes. Why else would she have brought out a cup for herself?"

Luckily, he didn't have to answer that. Molly and her mother returned once again. Molly handed Sherlock a plate and sat back down next to him, grinning like a Cheshire cat. When he saw what he was being served, he grinned back. Eggs benedict with broiled asparagus.

"So...Sherlock...what kind of a name is that, anyway?"

He seemed unperturbed by the question, he couldn't even take his eyes off of his fiancee. "You'd have to ask my mother. Might be Saxon. Oh, I _really_ like you, Hooper," he purred sultrily.

Her parents shot each other significant looks at this. "Is that how you let him talk to you, Molly?! Honestly, what is he, some kind of a nutter? You just call us up out of the blue, announcing you're engaged—again—and it's yet another man we don't even know."

"I'm an adult, _Mother_. I can make my own decisions."

Mr. Hooper joined in, "We just want what's best for you, Molly."

"I know that, Dad," she whispered.

"But if you expect us to give you our blessing, give our approval to this... person-"

"Ah, that's debatable, though, isn't it, Molly?" Sherlock rumbled with the threat of thunder. His mouth was drawn pensively but was turning up at the corners again as he observed the in-laws' reaction to this pronouncement.

Unconsciously, Molly found herself mimicking Sherlock's expression perfectly. She looked at him, then at her plate, as if about to take a great plunge. "He's not a person. And neither am I." And with that, she picked up the dripping muffin and ate it with her hands. Sherlock didn't hesitate for a second to do the same thing. They giggle conspiratorially at her parents' mortified expressions. Sherlock picked up a spear of asparagus and dragged it through the sauce on his fiancee's face, then ate it as well. "We're the same," he whispered.

"Oh, I love you, Sherlock," she told him breathlessly as she wiped his face off with her napkin. She cleaned herself up as well, just beaming at him rapturously.

He didn't speak, but just gazed at her silently. His answer was in his eyes, shining from his whole face. He pressed her palm to his mouth in a loud kiss before laying it on his cheek. "I...I..." Sherlock struggled, wishing he could spit it out for her now. Now, when she needed his support the most! Still, the word choked him and he shook his head in defeat. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to say it. I know. You've told me at least a dozen times since we got here. Darling, it's all right." Molly scooted her chair nearer to him and ran a hand through his hair.

"What in the world is the matter with you two?!" Mrs. Hooper demanded sharply, snapping the young couple from their tender moment. "Molly, if this is how you try to prove a point-"

"It's not."

"Then what is it?

Molly stirred and sipped her coffee, tasting _I love you_ with each drop. "You want what's best for me, and I appreciate that. You can't act as though you know me as well as you used to, though. I've been finding a lot out about myself in the past few years. I'm not some silly little girl who doesn't know what she's doing, or simply can't do any better. I love Sherlock, I always have. He makes me feel normal, like...there isn't anything wrong with me."

"And she does the same for me," Sherlock agreed.

"There _isn't_ anything wrong with you, Sherlock!"

"Four people, Molly," he reminded her. "You and four other people make the entire world's population that _doesn't_ think so."

"Then I'm in good company, because I know who the others are."

"It's fine, I don't care what people think."

"You care about what the people you love think," she reminded him pointedly.

Recalling how badly the man had stumbled over and around that simple word, Mr. Hooper decided to test him out for a reaction. "Do you love Molly,?"

Sherlock flinched, nearly spilling his coffee as it was halfway to his lips, but pulled himself together and nodded. "Mmm-hmm. Yes, uh...I...I do. I, uh...that thing, yes."

"I see," he grumbled, not liking the way he'd answered it at all. "Hypothetically-"

"Dad!"

"Just hear me out. If something were to happen to her...what would you do?"

Sherlock made a disdainful face at this question. Molly recognized his expression to mean that there was too much stupid in the room. "What precisely do you mean? Lots of things have happened to Molly. Lots of things are going to happen to her every day. Be more specific. Next question."

"If the worst should happen-"

"Which is?"

"Some tragic accident, let's say."

"Death? Dismemberment? Fire, flood, plague? Narrow it down!" He commanded loftily, thoroughly enjoying himself now. He could parry every thrust this man could turn on him!

"Let's say Molly was in a bad car wreck-"

"_That's_ 'the worst' that can happen? Hundreds of people get in car accidents every day. It's hardly the worst fate I could imagine for her. Still, you asked. What would I do if she were in a wreck? If she were injured as a result, I'd do what I could to get her into a good physical therapy program. If that wasn't an option, if she'd been paralysed, I'd care for her myself, perhaps hire a live-in nurse if necessary. I'd try to keep my work more local to avoid being away from home and attracting unwanted attention. I'd learn to cook, do things for her, find her books she'd like, take her to the park, over time I'd help her relearn how to do things on her own again. In other words, I'd be her husband! And if she were killed I would avenge her death sevenfold." His report was calm, as though it was something he'd already thought out and was mentally prepared for. Just a few of life's possibilities. He sipped his coffee with a comfortable smile. It actually helped him to be able to say all of that without a moment's pause. Sherlock's biggest fear since his engagement was that he wouldn't know how to be a good husband to Molly. The fact of the matter was that he already knew what he must do, he would have done it anyway without being quizzed over it. It was already in him to want to look after her.

"Sevenfold?!"

"To her killer's childrens' childrens' children," he delivered dramatically, a mad look creeping into his eyes. "Is that devotion enough? I could go further, if you require it of me." He drummed his fingers together as he held his halo up with his horns.

"That's...not exactly what we meant," Molly's mother put in, looking between the two of them. She pushed her plate away, having completely lost her appetite. Mr. Hooper took their untouched plates back to the kitchen.

"That was very good, by the way, Mrs. Hooper. Now I can see where Molly learned to make it." Sherlock told her in a perfectly friendly tone. "Pity you're not hungry anymore." Somehow, his attempt at sincerity fell a little flat. Molly laid a hand on his knee under the table, glad to be on the same team as him. She loved her parents, and was certain they loved her, but they just didn't always show it in the right way. They finished their drinks quickly for an excuse to take off as soon as possible.

"Well, thanks for having us," Molly told her parents, holding Sherlock's hand in plain view. "I'll let you know more as it develops. We're thinking sometime after Christmas."

Her parents give Sherlock one more once-over, dislike plain on their faces. "Promise you'll take care of her?"

"Your daughter can take care of herself. She's taken good care of me, especially. But yes, if I can ensure her safety, I will."

"What about her happiness?" Mrs. Hooper put in, folding her arms.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking bored. "What about it? I cannot guarantee her happiness as I'm not her sole source of it. Even if I was, I couldn't promise you that, because life is a series of challenges, highlighted by various stages of pain and suffering. I shall assist her in whatever way I can. Is that not what one's spouse ought to do?"

"Just listen to what you're promising her. You've said nothing of love or happiness. You'll assist her, though, avenge her death, probably make her a freak like you..."

"I so swear," he replied with a grin. "Come along, Molly. Morgue's calling."

"There ought to be at least one interesting subject. Stamford just texted me. Says he found a doozy for one of his classes and he's going to let us play with it first."

"Wonderful. See you at the wedding!" Sherlock called to his future in-laws.

It was amazing how being engaged made the time fly by. They hadn't even set a date, but everything seemed to be rushing toward this finish line before them.

Once again, John had joined Sherlock at Baker Street for wedding preparations. Both of them felt the distinct sense of deja vu. The only difference this time was that John brought his family along to help out, and Molly was peering over everybody's shoulder. She fussed and fretted over matching napkins and table runners. It was going to be quite a small wedding, just a City Hall one, but they'd agreed on a reception for family and friends afterward.

The women were in the dining room, looking at swatches. John was hunched over a catalog of flowers and party favors...when he felt Sherlock's eyes on him. He looked up, pleasantly surprised to see a comfortable smile on the man's face. He was gazing at him openly, but there didn't appear to be any pain in his eyes.

"Yes?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head lightly, smiling contentedly. "Nothing, just...I...I'm sorry, John."

"Sorry? Sorry for what?"

"It's gone. It's stopped. It...doesn't hurt anymore. I think...I think I'm better. I'm not hurting because of you."

Molly froze, listening intently. Mary followed suit. They knew this was something big. Mary smiled at the young bride-to-be with an expression almost of congratulations. She patted her hand and nodded.

"Oh," John remarked. "Good." He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say to this. He flipped a page and looked at a variety of china figures that guests could take home.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock repeated, more forcefully. Despite the fact that the lack of pain was a good thing, it still felt like betrayal. Like he'd forgotten him. "For...for..."

"For getting over me?"

Mary leaned in and whispered to Molly, "Did you know about that?"

"The first few times we made love," Molly admitted, "Sherlock called out John's name. It was so heartbreaking, but I couldn't be angry at him for it. He hasn't since I moved in, since we got engaged. He's stopped crying, too."

Mary didn't say anything else, just looked relieved. She held a scrap of silk to a lace trim sample, looking at the newest inductee into their growing family. They both listened quietly, waiting to hear how it would come out. It certainly sounded like a good start.

"You were the first person I ever loved," Sherlock rumbled softly but clearly. "I...don't feel right in realizing I've abandoned that. We...we were perfect, John. If only you'd—or if I-" he broke off, wincing. "I don't know how you did it, but you...crept into my nonexistent heart and made it beat for you. You were my anchor, my lighthouse, you brought me home and kept me sane for all this time! How could I forget you?!" He sounded close to tears.

John sprang forward, catching the man in his arms. "You didn't forget me, Sherlock. How could we forget each other? I'm not accusing you of anything. It's healthy, it's good. It means you love Molly and you're not just using her as a substitute."

Sherlock clung back tightly, sniffling a little to himself. He nodded into John's shoulder. "Yes, I know. Well, they say that for each actual outcome, another universe exists where something different occurred. Could be a load of tosh, but if there is...and somewhere we're together...I'd like that."

John found himself smiling at that prospect, too, strange as it might be for him to think of. "Yeah. Maybe there is."

"Why do I feel this way, then? If this is normal, healthy behavior as you say?"

"Falling out of love is never easy. It's a first for you. I don't take it the wrong way, I'm not insulted or anything. I'm happy for you. For you and Molly. We're still friends, and we always will be, I swear. You're my family, my brother. I love you."

Sherlock drew a deep, satisfying breath, savoring this strange, sweet moment in his life. "I would have been good to you."

"You'll be good to Molly." 

"Yes, I will." And he patted John on the back heartily and pulled away with an "everything's normal" smile. "Well...glad that's settled, then. So, let's see, wedding favors. Something useful, don't you think? All these little knicknacky things are utterly pointless." He tossed aside the catalog and held out a sporting magazine. "How about some nice throwing stars?"

John choked on a laugh, looking at the pictures. "You really want to give your in-laws weapons? Heard you didn't exactly hit it off with them."

"Oh, yes. Good point. The last thing we need is a murder at the reception." He smirked over at his friend significantly.

"Right, Sherlock," John remarked, passing a hand over his face.

"I mean, it was exciting at yours, but I really felt that it upstaged the main event. Inconsiderate, really."

"Yeah, that was...exactly my problem with it, too. Mary complained about it for days."

"So, let's nix that idea. How about we just let them steal the spoons and call it a day?"

"You can't do that, they're rented. The caterers would not be happy."

Sherlock looked back through the original catalog one more time, thumbing through it almost violently. After tearing half of it apart, he taped the pages up on the wall and flung a knife at it. He clapped for himself like a child, drawing out the women from their hiding place. "Molly, we're giving our guests..." He yanked out the blade and inspected..."Hideous little china Dutch shoes."

"Why those?" The bride asked, certain that she didn't want to know the answer, judging by his method of selection.

"To make them wonder the very same thing!" He beamed brightly, fiddling with the knife in his hand as Molly looked at the scattered pages. "What? Something you like better?" She looked at him, then back at the page in her hand, then back at him with a devilish smile...

The next day, they put in an order for a hundred old-fashioned magnifying glasses. They had their initials printed on the handle in gold. Functional and appropriate.

Days passed, preparations continued, and life went on. One night, Sherlock sat hunched over the table, working on one of his latest experiments. Papers were strewn about, diagrams were taped up on the cabinets, and his equipment had completely taken over the dining table once again. He was obviously engrossed in his work. Molly took a quick circuit around the room, then stopped behind her fiance.

"Sherlock..."

"Hmm?"

"Come to bed."

"Hmm-mmm," he muttered in negative.

She hovered behind him quietly for a minute before trying again. "It's late."

"Time is an illusion," he remarked bluntly, stretching the skin on a dead finger, peeling it back from the nail with a tweezers as he peered at it through the lighted magnifier.

Molly watched, pretending to be interested, and placed her hands on his shoulders, giving him a brief massage. "Darling, please..."

"Not. Now!" Sherlock hissed, rapidly growing annoyed but trying to keep his cool. He didn't want to lose his temper with her and start a whole other argument.

She draped her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek with a soft, sensual hum in her throat. "Come to bed," she told him again, giving his ear a lick.

Sherlock jerked away, flailing a hand at her blindly. "Stop that! Can't you see I'm busy? This is important!"

"That's important?"

"Yes! It's highly delicate, too." he finally dragged his eyes away from his work and looked at Molly. "While I appreciate the thought behind your attempt at seduction, please stop! Go to bed, read a book, do something quiet! This requires my attention. I will join you _later!"_

Molly pouted and folded her arms. "So, what? I'll keep? I can wait while you futz around with your cadavers?"

"Glad you finally got the picture."

"And what if I don't agree?"

Finally, Sherlock snapped! "Oh, shut up, Hooper! Leave me alone!" He fumed at her unapologetically, gave a sharp snort that blew the hair out of his face, and bent over his project once more.

Minutes drew out. Then, Sherlock heard something that he wouldn't have expected...a familiar, sinister-sounding chuckle coming from the living room. He looked up and saw his brother sitting there, like he'd been there all day.

"Good, very good, dear brother."

"What the hell are you doing here, Mycroft?" he snarled impatiently. "I have enough distractions."

"So I see. And while we're on that subject...My dear, there's the matter of our wager we need to settle."

Molly didn't seem remotely surprised to see her future brother-in-law in her home. She greeted him and his snake-like smile. "I think we agreed on fifty, isn't that right?"

"Yes," Mycroft drawled, reaching for his wallet. "I'm actually glad to lose this bet, you know," he told her as he handed her a folded bill.

"I'm sure," Molly agreed as she pocketed it.

Sherlock was now fully removed from his highly important experiment. He stared across the room at those two; they sounded quite comfortable with each other! Comfortable enough to make a £50 bet!

"All right, consider me interested. What was your bet about?"

"Oh, the effects of domestication on a wild male beast," Mycroft explained unctuously. "I bet against you. I thought you'd be so befuddled by your charming mate that you'd abandon your work at her slightest command."

Sherlock looked from one to the other...then landed on the future Mrs. Holmes. "And you..."

"My money was on you all the way. Why else would I have tried so hard to prove it?" She turned to the unexpected guest and waved him out. "It's late. See you at the wedding if not before." Mycroft stalked out and Molly locked the door behind him. "Good night, dear."

"Wait, just...just one thing. You're not angry. You're...glad I picked my work over you."

"Of course. You wouldn't be much of a consulting detective if you let yourself get distracted." And with that, she flounced away to the bedroom, leaving Sherlock alone to his project. A slow smile spread on his face. Then, before resuming, he called out, "Good night, Molly!"

The day had finally arrived. All of their preparations were finished. The hall was booked and assembled, it was all waiting for them once they had their quick, private ceremony. Small though it was, this wedding was bound to make the front page. Nobody in their right mind would have seen it coming. All that were to be assembled at the courthouse were Molly, Sherlock, Molly's parents, John and Mary. Her parents were only coming because of the fuss they'd made at being excluded from the proceedings. Although it was a simple affair, City Hall still looked rather picturesque with its remaining Christmas decorations still up. It wasn't a busy time for anyone, either, so there was no trouble in directing this battle plan.

Sherlock paced, looking at the clock from time to time. "She's late."

"By one minute," John told him, watching his friend stalk back and forth until he was dizzy. "That clock might be fast."

"Whose silly idea was it to have us arrive separately? Where could she have gotten to?"

"It's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding," Mary reminded him, stopping the nervous groom and straightening his tie for him. "It's going to be fine. Just a few quick words from the judge and it'll all be over. Know what you're going to say? Or are you going to improvise? We all know how well you think on your feet." She swiped a flower from a nearby arrangement and stuck it through Sherlock's buttonhole. "You look smashing. And see, here she comes!"

Sherlock's head snapped toward the giant double doors as his bride came through. She opted out of a traditional wedding gown in favor of a tasteful cocktail dress of green velvet. Her parents sidled in behind her, hanging in the background with lingering disapproval.

The justice of the peace walked in and acknowledged the couple he was about to wed. He'd seen many weddings in his time, and he'd seen many grooms as they got their first look at their soon-to-be wife. Awe, shock, astonishment, tears...but Sherlock showed none of these reactions. His ashen expression of anxiety vanished in a relieved grin, as though seeing an old friend. When Molly saw his face, she was certain she'd chosen her dress wisely. She read plainly in his face, _thank goodness, it's you!_ She walked up to him, looking so perfectly happy, extending a hand to him.

"It's just me, Sherlock. Nothing to be afraid of. Same old Molly," she murmured encouragingly, familiar and safe. One of his own kind.

"Yes," he sighed, glad to agree with her there. He looked past her and gave her parents a nod of recognition, then back to his bride as they got started. The justice began reading the standard wedding spiel, he'd just gotten to the exchanging of the rings when Sherlock stopped him.

"Listen, Molly, there's something I have to tell you. Just...shut up a minute and hear me out until the end. I know there's...something I haven't been able to say to you, and I didn't really think much about it until we became engaged. I must confess that since then, there's been someone else I've wanted to say it to-" All present gasped, eyes stared, heads shook, begging him to shut up and not do this today. Molly's parents looked ready to leave. "There's been someone that I've thought a lot about since then. I'd lie awake at night, anticipating our meeting, when we could be together at last. It filled me to the brim. I never thought I could be so happy. I honestly thought I'd given up on such things long ago. I owe it to you, in a way, for introducing us. I found that the reason why I could not tell you I love you, Molly Hooper..." he then slid the ring on her furiously trembling finger and told her, "is because I love _you, _Molly Holmes." He flashed her a wicked grin as he waited for his meaning to sink in. When it did, he laughed heartily, squeezing her hand, bringing it up to kiss her fingers.

"Oh, Sherlock, you..."

"We'll fill in the blanks later, I have quite a number of choice words you can pick from," he answered smoothly as they were pronounced man and wife. She swatted his shoulder playfully as they kissed. John and Mary looked annoyed and relieved at the same time while Mr. and Mrs. Hooper looked perfectly scandalized. They stalked past the happy couple on their way out to their car, giving the groom dirty looks that were returned with his trademark manic grin.

"Call us when you come to your senses," Mrs. Hooper told her daughter.

"Oh, now it's hardly polite to say you never want to hear from Molly again," Sherlock admonished as he pushed past them, dragging his bride along by the hand. Sherlock, Molly, John, and Mary all hopped into their waiting limousine and they sped away. They stopped at a red light a minute later next to a familiar luxury car with dark-tinted windows. Sherlock grinned to himself and rolled down the window. The passenger in the next one did the same.

"You're in," Mycroft drawled at his new sister-in-law with grudging acquiescence. "Welcome to the clan, Mrs. Holmes." Then, to someone else in his car, "Mother, please! Can't you just-" there was suddenly a great deal of yoo-hooing to be heard. Another window rolled down and his parents waved eagerly, looking perfectly delighted.

"We always wanted a daughter!" Molly's new father-in-law called over as the light changed. "Well, see you at the reception!"

Molly leaned back in next to her husband and murmured worriedly, "Your parents, what are they like?"

"Normal. Well, normal enough. They'll love you."

"Your next hurdle is to get through the reception without having to stop a murder attempt," Mary reminded her matter-of-factly laying a hand on the bride's arm with a smile. "Tradition, you know."

They pull up to the hall at last. "Well, here we are. Ready? Vatican cameos," Sherlock muttered his code phrase for "battle stations", they all exchange nods and touch hands in solidarity.

Adventure awaits!


	6. Epilogue

**Well, you asked for it, so here it is! Just a bit more for my lovely readers :) Enjoy!**

Six months later...

Sherlock came home one afternoon and found the flat in shambles! It looked as though a tornado had gone through the place! For a handful of seconds, he froze. His eyes darted all over the living room, taking in everything. Molly had the day off, she would have been at home when this happened! Sherlock cursed whatever ridiculous sentimentality it was that caused him to have gotten close to her, because seeing the signs of her abduction made him feel physically ill. He took several deep breaths, reading the room like a crime scene, pushing aside any worry or blame to give full power to his mental faculties. Sherlock's brain rebelled, though, throwing up images of his wife, caught and tortured, held by some loathsome enemy. He glided into the kitchen, found her lab coat draped around the back of a chair, taking it up and breathing its scent for comfort. That fired his brain into action-mode! _Must find Molly! _Sherlock dropped to all-fours, whipping out his pocket magnifying glass, going over the whole living room for the most minute details. A minute later, he struck gold! He found a carpark ticket, trampled on the floor. It was new, but torn and dirtied by a fresh shoe print. Sherlock then stood up, attempting to retrace the steps taken by the intruder, gauging his height and general size by the path created in his wake. It gave him a foul jolt when he saw a cluster of long golden-brown hairs that had evidently been torn out in the struggle. It was getting difficult to think. The last time he felt this cold, clear rage wash over him was when his landlady had been taken hostage! This time, it was his wife! _Focus! Sentiment will gain me nothing! It's just another crime scene. Solve the case, save the victim!_ He snatched up the ticket and examined it more closely. It was for a carpark on the other end of the city...

Sherlock's cab pulled up to the parking garage in the pouring rain. He stalked through the levels, looking for some sign of his wife's abductor. He found nothing until he reached the top floor when he was met with a familiar and generally unwelcome sight.

"You have something of mine, dear brother," Sherlock spat out dangerously.

Mycroft was, as ever, unaffected. He stared coldly at his younger brother, stepping aside to let him see his wife. "Slow, as usual," he declared disappointedly. "I really had thought better of you, you know."

Extending his hand to her, Sherlock addressed Molly, "Come with me, it's all right." She didn't move. She and Mycroft turned to each other with matching smirks of superiority. "Molly, come here! I'll take you home. I've got a cab waiting."

"Oh, that won't be necessary, darling," she replied, looking and sounding not at all like herself. She drew nearer to Mycroft, draping her arm around him. "I'm quite well taken care of, at the moment." Molly gave a careless, cruel laugh. "I must say, your brother was rather interested in the things I had to tell him."

"Tell him? Tell him what?" Sherlock demanded, feeling cornered, blindsided! Was his own sweet wife really a double-agent?!

Molly pouted mockingly at her husband. "Oh, nothing to get in a twist over. Mycroft just needed to know what you've been up to. You know, when the curtain goes down. Those little run-ins you wouldn't be keen on letting the whole world know." Sherlock looked between his wife and Mycroft; their body carriage, their expressions were almost identical. Had they been working together behind his back for all this time? He felt cold in the pit of his stomach...then he drew his gun.

As one, Mycroft and Molly burst out laughing! Real, honest laughter rang out. They pointed at him, doubling over in hysterics.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock! You...you should have seen the look on your face! That was perfect!" Molly giggled, sounding exactly like herself again and not Mycroft's sycophant. That hellish illusion was broken, thank goodness.

"Really, Sherlock, you'd think your own wife would betray you? To me, of all people?" Mycroft leered at his brother. "Now, put that gun down before you hurt someone."

The younger Holmes found himself obeying. He relaxed all the more when his wife returned to his side.

"I'm sorry for scaring you," Molly murmured, slipping into her husband's arms. "I knew you'd find me."

"Well, turnabout's fair play, as they say. I'll consider this my payback for my attempt at proposing." Relief was a delayed reaction in him. It took a few minutes of just staring at Molly to realize it had all been a game. He pulled her into a tight hug. "Come on, cab's waiting." He froze in the act of leading Molly away with him when a loud _pop!_ issued behind him. He whipped around, reaching for his gun again, when he saw his brother gliding up to him with a foaming bottle of champagne. With perfect dexterity, he balanced the bottle between his thumb and forefinger, pouring out a flute for each of them and handing it around.

"Ah, but we haven't gotten to the good part yet! My dear sister told me she had news and it was cause for celebration, hence this charming little ruse. Now, let's hear it."

Molly turns from her brother-in-law and takes a sip from her glass. "It's all right, Sherlock," she soothed. "You're not angry, are you?"

He stared down at her face. His Molly, just as she always was. His breath was still shaky from stress; he took a sip from his glass as well, brushing her cheek with his free hand, already suspecting the news, but not wanting to spoil it by deducing too much. "Please. Tell me."

She just smiled up at him, certain he knew already, waiting for him to go pale with fright... "Uh, I..."

Sherlock then found he couldn't take it anymore. He blurted out, "Are you really?" There's a hint of a laugh in his voice. As little as he'd ever suspected it applying to him, it suddenly sounded like another great adventure.

Molly nodded giddily. "We're having a baby, Sherlock! Isn't it wonderful?" He simply stared at her, speechlessly. He quickly downed the rest of his champagne. Mycroft readily snatched the glass from him to leave him free to embrace his wife.

"You little sneak," he laughed softly into her ear. "I only hope..."

"Yes?"

Sherlock drew away a bit to look his wife over, studying her face. "I hope it turns out like you."

"Funny," Molly quipped, "I was going to tell you the same thing."

They just smiled at each other for a moment, knowing that the panic will set in in its own time, but just enjoying the good news for what it was now. "Well," Sherlock breathed, "Now that we've made poor Mycroft horribly sick with our display of affection, let's go home."

"Yes," the accused urged dryly. "Please do. I'd tell you to get a room, but it's obvious you've already done that. Congratulations to you both. I look forward to the corruption of the young." And with that as his last word on the matter, Mycroft Holmes stalked back into the shadows from whence he came.

"Don't worry, our child won't turn out like him," Sherlock assured the mother-to-be. Molly giggled and let him lead her down to their waiting cab.

Once inside, she snuggled up to him cozily. Her nose twitched curiously, as if she caught an unexpected scent..."Sherlock...?" He dodged, but wasn't fast enough for his wife's grasping hands. She pulled open his jacket and stared! "You're wearing my lab coat."

"Oh, this? Am I really?" He voiced in pretend innocence. "Just thought it was a chilly day. Layering, you know...wouldn't want to catch cold in the damp." Still, he "confessed" well enough by drawing the lapels up for a pleasurable whiff. "I like having you near me. And here," he added, removing his scarf and wrapping it around her neck. "You need to keep warm, too. Especially with the baby to think of."

Molly grinned up at him, gave him a happy little nuzzle under the chin. "We're the same. The three of us. We're the same."


End file.
